Orange, red, and green lights begin to glow through windows on the trailer. They blink on and off to the beat of a dragging muffler. A loud bass beat is heard as well. Boom boom, it goes into evening. A game of basketball is played with a milk crate makeshift basket. No backboard, just a black crate with the words Dairy Fresh on the sides nailed to a pole. Opossums rummage through trash cans.

The old man sits on the couch as Bobby paces the room. Four Old Styles on the table. Each has a beer in their hand.

You telling me she was here last night? Bobby asks. In the flesh? Wasn’t some ghost, was it? Some apparition?

No. She was here. She stood there, Walter points at the wall, looking at your artwork.

This is a figment of your imagination. I’m gonna quit bringing you booze, Bobby sits on the folding chair. It’s that Fireball.  Shit will make you crazy.

No, no, no. I’m as sane as you are. Granted, you’re crazier than ten niggers. But, no. She was here. We talked. Said I hadn’t changed.

Well. That’s true.

She has gray hair now. No longer blonde.

That so? Bobby moves over to Walter on the couch. Why do you have to lie to me? Mom’s either dead or living some place else. Cause she ain’t here. She doesn’t come to visit you. He picks up the four remaining beers and heads to the door.

No. No. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

I’m outta here.

Just leave me one, Walter begs. Just one.

Bobby tears a beer from the plastic and throws it at the old man like a fastball. It hits the floor and rolls. The old man gets on his hands and knees and chases it.

That’s your salvation. Bobby tells him. Hold onto it. Might be the last one you get. He exits the trailer.

Walter sits on the floor and opens the foamy beer. He begins to cry.