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Jere pulled back the door's curtain just as some kid walked up to ring the bell. The kid screamed and dropped the raffle tickets he was holding.

"Sorry," said Jere. "I didn't mean to scare you." Jere's bare feet came into the kid's view. The toenails were dirty and long. A mangy cat sped out of the house and scattered the remaining raffle tickets.

"It's okay, mister. I'm okay. I was just..." The smell from the house hit the kid and he gagged on his words.

"Let me help you," said Jere, squatting and picking at a ticket. Jere's short robe rose up his rashy thighs and the kid gagged again, turning his gaze away too late, too late. For the rest of the kid's life, the image of scabby knees spreading wide as Jere squatted before him would resurface whenever he was under stress, and once when he looked in a pot of boiling roast.