CHAPTER 9
It’s still early, but the unforgiving sun beats down against my already pink skin—Alabama, turning me into a redneck whether I want it to or not. Corn silk tickles my arms, slick like spiderwebs. A few more hours and we’ll be finished with these fields. Just a few more hours. But I grimace anyway. “I hate worms.”
“You didn’t hate worms last night,” Ryder says. Sweat glistens on his forehead; his T-shirt is dark with sweat.
“Speak for yerself, bruther. I’d say most of us are more like snakes.” Rooster grabs another stalk of corn, pulls it to him, and snaps it in half. He squints into the stalk, frowns, and tosses it aside.
“Or eels,” Mack says, yanking another stalk from the earth.
Ryder chuckles. “His anaconda don’t want none unless—”
“Jesus,” I say, wiping my filthy hands
