Harlan Boudreaux didn't worry about the goings-on of outsiders. He kept to himself, by himself, in the same shack where he'd been born seventy years before.

His younger brother fled the nest like an eager bird with its first feather, and only visited three times after he left. Once, when Mama died. Then again two years later, after Papa joined her. The last time was forty years ago, to show Harlan his wife, and the toddling baby girl they'd lovingly named Cherie.

Harlan never had a wife. His one true love was the swamp, and the few women he'd courted over the years wanted no part of it. Jeanie had tried. She'd stayed for a year before demanding they move to town. Said life was better there. Said it was more comfortable. Called his way "unhealthy". Considering she'd been dead nearly twenty years, Harlan was confident she'd been wrong.

He had every comfort a man could need. He grew more food than he could eat and sold the excess to buy what he couldn't grow. He wore suits to town, kept his home in good repair, and he didn't have to deal with the building chaos outside his solitude.

The world was constantly changing, declining. It'd been a subtle shift at first: the clothes people wore, the way they spoke, the cars they drove. Then the clothes grew tattered as they remained the same, and too big as the people wasted away. Mouths flipped, smiles becoming frowns—even scowls—whenever he drove through town with a fresh load of produce.

Who'd have ever thought Harlan Boudreaux would be considered a rich man?

An old rich man.

An easy target.

That was his worry today. Each time he left, it felt like he might never return, and he'd be damned if he let himself die anywhere other than where he belonged. That was why he'd decided today would be the last time he'd ever step foot out of the bayou. He was going to bring his savings, sell his last load of vegetables, and buy up enough supplies to get him to his death. He was old enough it wouldn't take much.

Harlan lugged the last crate onto his fan boat and made the long trip to the place he kept his truck. Then he loaded the truck, and the gun he kept beneath its tattered bench seat. It wouldn't do him much good against a group, but it had been enough to deter any trouble so far. He could only pray it would be enough today.

The dirt road leading into town was disappearing beneath fresh grass, had been for quite some time. If Harlan didn't know the journey by heart, he doubted he'd be able to follow it. Another reason it was time to retire. Old men forgot things. His papa had forgotten everything by the time he passed, and Harlan didn't know which was worse: being robbed and killed away from his home or lost just within reach of it.

He straightened in his seat as the first signs of civilization came into view. There was once a time when Harlan could understand his brother's desire to leave. The Creole style architecture, with its big, sprawling porches and intricate iron lace, was a sight to see. Or, at least, it had been many years before. Now, the houses were stripped bare, ransacked, with nothing left except the doorless, windowless, graffitied bones of what had once been. Iron lace buried beneath honeysuckle. Porches collapsing into pampas grass.

The folks who'd lived in those big houses had gone on to safer places, and the only people left were the ones who couldn't afford to do the same. And Harlan, of course, who knew the only true safety was disconnection.

Dirt gave way to pavement as decrepit homes became lived-in shacks, then storefronts as he made it to the entrance of town. There were days, long ago, when he would curse the empty streets, knowing it would be hard, if not impossible, to sell his load. Now, he wished some of the people would leave. They crowded the sidewalks on either side, spilling into the road as they rushed back and forth, scrambling as if life was a race with no finish line.

He made it through and parked in his usual spot, then began the process of setting up his makeshift roadside stand. He unfolded his table and sat one crate of each vegetable on its surface before stacking the rest up around him. A lone girl lingered at a distance, watching him. Good. Maybe more would join her. The sooner he sold out, the sooner he could be done.

He unfolded his chair, took a seat, then waved her forward. "You can fill a bag for two dollars or buy a crate for ten." He lifted the box of plastic bags left over from his last trip.

"What can I get for a nickel?" the young girl asked.

A nickel? He opened his mouth to tell her she might get a handful of loose corn but closed it as he caught her eyes: big, brown, and shiny with tears. Then a small cry sounded, drawing his attention for the first time to the baby carrier beside her feet. She kneeled to place a pacifier in the babe's mouth, and Harlan took note of her boney wrist.

He sighed, then collected a bag and popped it open, filling it with a little from each crate before holding it out to her. "This isn't charity."

She looked up, and those eyes widened, grew shinier as tears spilled onto her cheeks. "Thank you."

"No, now, don't go thanking me! It isn't charity. I'll give you this in exchange for five sales. You get five people to buy from my stand, and you'll earn this bag. If you want to get five more, I'll give you another. Sound fair?"

She nodded, then gazed at the babe, smiling even as her chin wobbled, and her breaths grew sharp.

Harlan had to look away or he'd just give her the whole load and be done with it. He knew, with the amount of people out and about, it wouldn't take much at all for the girl to do what he'd asked. In reality, she'd only be speeding up the process by alerting them to his presence. But he wanted her to have the food, and he didn't want her pride in exchange.

"Would you mind if I left my son here while I go?"

Harlan's gaze snapped back to her.

She chewed her lip, then glanced over her shoulder at the crowds. "I hate bringing him here. I'll feel much better approaching strangers if I know he's a safe distance away."

Harlan balked at her request. Why did she think the babe would be safer with him? He wasn't a young man. If anything, he was a much larger target than she would ever be. "I think the boy would be safer with you than an old man like me, Cher."

"Oh, but no one will bother you. You bring food. The stores barely have any, and it's all so overpriced, no one can afford it. Your prices are fair, and your food is fresh. They call you a Saint, you know? Please, sir. I know my son will be safe here with you, and he won't be any trouble at all. He's a good boy, barely cries, and if he does—"

Harlan raised a hand to stop her begging. He had to admit, it was nice to hear her say the town relied on him. It gave him an added sense of security he'd desperately needed. He sighed again, then motioned for her to bring the child to him.

She smiled wide and picked up the carrier, struggling with both hands to bring it over and set it beside him behind the table. "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

He didn't need to tell her to stop. She was cut off as a line began to form. By the time Harlan finished the transactions, she'd disappeared into the crowds. He glanced down at the babe, and the child stared wide-eyed up at him. Silent. Curious.

Harlan lifted a brow, then scoffed as the child mimicked the expression.

The babe couldn't have been more than eight months old, though Harlan wasn't sure. He'd never had a babe, and it had been a long time since his brother had been one.

Before he could analyze it any further, his attention was stolen by a fresh line of eager customers.

The girl sent me. The girl sent me. The girl sent me, they said as if it were a greeting. At the rate they were coming, Harlan worried he'd run out and have to come back to pay her tomorrow.

He filled bags as he went, stacking them beside the babe, who watched it all as if he planned to take over once Harlan was finished.

Then the line dwindled, and the last customer stepped forward. "The girl sent me."

Harlan nodded, already opening a bag since there wasn't a full crate left for the man to buy.

"She said to give you this."

He looked up to find a folded paper held out in his direction, then immediately scanned the street. The crowds had thinned, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. "Did you see where she went?" he asked the man.

"No. But she said if I gave you this, you'd give me a bag of vegetables. That true?"

Cold dread built inside Harlan's chest. Without a word, he grabbed one of the prepared bags, and took the note. The man left, and Harlan flopped back into his chair, unfolding the paper with shaking hands.

Mr. Harlan Boudreaux,

You don't know this, but the baby boy beside you is your great-grandson, Croc.

For a long second, Harlan's mind went completely blank. He lowered the paper to his lap and looked over at the babe. It couldn't be true, of course. Though, even as he thought it, he started to notice things. The color of the babe's eyes. The shape of his nose. No. It wasn't possible. He lifted the paper.

My grandmother was Jeanie Landry. She didn't tell Mama about you until she was on her death bed, and I guess Mama just never wanted to accept that the man who raised her wasn't her real papa.

Please, don't take her refusal to seek you out as a sign of resentment. Grandmother told her everything, called you a good man, and said if you'd known you had a child, you would have come with her. She said you belonged in a different world than we did.

Harlan's gaze shifted out of focus as the memory of Jeanie sifted to the forefront of his mind. She'd been pregnant. That had been the reason for her sudden need for civilization.

Another life flashed before his eyes; a life he would've had if Jeanie had only told him. He blinked twice and found his place on the paper.

Mama's name was Beatrice.

She died three years ago.

A shudder racked his chest. He'd had a daughter, and he'd never even known. That girl, with her boney frame and gaunt face, was his granddaughter. He scanned the area again. The streets were almost empty, but still, he couldn't see her. The babe had fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of his mother's disappearance. Everything was happening too fast; Harlan couldn't process all of it.

I'm sorry to tell you that in a note. I'd love nothing more than to speak with you directly, to know you properly, but I know, if I do that, I'll never follow through with what I'm about to do.

Harlan's chest sunk to somewhere deep within his stomach.

There's no life for him here, and I'm too mixed up in all the bad to be any kind of mother. I know I have no right to saddle you with the burden of a child, but I thought, if you knew who he was, maybe you would consider letting him be with you, somewhere he can have a chance.

He'll be a year old on the 12th. I've included enough formula to last until then. He only cries when he's hungry, or when he needs his diaper changed. I included those as well. They're cloth, so there's no need to buy new. He likes it when you sing to him. If all else fails, give him the stuffed bear.

Harlan squinted at the next line, the ink smudged until it was impossible to tell what had been written. Tears. She'd been crying as she wrote. Why hadn't she just told him? He would have helped. He would have let her come too.

He was born with four of the sharpest teeth a mother ever had to endure and has gotten many more since. Be careful. He bites anything that comes close to his mouth.

He's my little Crocodile.

That's why I named him Croc.

Please, take good care of him,

Jolie

Harlan folded the letter back up, then clutched it in his fist as grief took form as irritation. The girl obviously hadn't inherited her common sense from him. Not if she'd hand her child over to a man with one foot in the grave. He could die any minute! No. This would not do. Now, if she wanted help, he would help. But he physically could not raise her babe.

He pushed to his feet, shoved the note in his pocket, then began all but throwing the empty crates into the truck bed. He had to hurry up and find that girl before it got too close to dark.

But the stores closed, and the streets emptied, and Harlan looked everywhere. No girl.

What did she expect him to do? What if he was the type to just leave the child? Did she even consider that?

The sun was setting. He needed to get home. He hadn't even had time to buy his supplies! This would not do. This would not do at all.

He drove in silence out of town, down the dirt road, stealing glances at the sleeping babe in the passenger's seat. She'd left a bag behind his carrier, and he hoped to God it contained more instruction than what she'd put in that letter. He couldn't believe it. A babe! Someone had shown up, handed him a babe, told him he was his great-grandson, and left!

How could Jeanie have done this to him? She had to have known he'd want to know. Would his love for the swamp have outweighed his own flesh and blood?

Harlan shook his head sharply, as if someone else had asked the question. Of course it wouldn't have. He would have given Jeanie what she needed, left the swamp for a while, then returned once the child was grown. Parents didn't live with their children forever.

His thoughts continued until he barely registered the trip at all. He moved on autopilot, leaving the empty crates behind with the truck as he took the fan boat home, barely watching the water. He stared at the boy, noticing more. He was too small to be nearly a year old.

The girl had planned it. She'd had the note already written. She didn't even know him. So what if Jeannie had good things to say? On the grander scale, had Jeannie really even known Harlan? They'd only spent a year together, and people changed. For all they knew, he could have lost his mind.

What can I get for a nickel?

She'd been testing him.

Harlan sighed as the boat slowed to a stop in front of the dock. He lifted the babe's seat, hoisted the bag onto his opposite shoulder, and walked across the planks to his front door.

He didn't bother with the lamp inside. He didn't have the energy. Instead, he placed the carrier onto the couch, then slumped into the place beside it, burying his head in his hands. It couldn't be real. He couldn't be responsible for this child.

As if on cue, the babe stirred, gurgled, then gave a cry.

A gator couldn't have made Harlan jump back any faster. He scrambled, lighting the lantern, then hurrying for the bag, as the babe's cries grew louder.

Harlan couldn't distinguish what was inside the bag, and after a minute of searching, he gave up and dumped the contents all over the living room floor. Nappies, a small book, a bear, and countless other items scattered across the carpet. He snatched a bottle and can of formula from the pile.

The babe let out an ear-piercing squall that made Harlan fumble the items on his way to the kitchen. Why was this happening? How did he even get to this moment?

The instructions on the can were too small to read, forcing him to sprint through the house to retrieve his glasses. His whole body shook. His hands wouldn't work. When he could finally read the can, he couldn't measure out the powder. Each time he went to tip the scoop, he'd shake it all into the sink.

He steadied his elbow onto the counter, added the formula, then the water, but before he could secure the lid, he dropped it, spilling the contents all over the floor.

"Couyon!" Harlan shouted as he snatched it up and rinsed it off to start again.

It took him ten minutes to mix powder with water, and in all the time, the child continued to scream as if he were lit on fire.

Harlan sprinted across the living room and fell to his knees before the couch, reaching out to pop it into the boy's mouth.

The crying instantly stopped, and the silence had never been more welcome.

Harlan slumped, his head bowed toward the floor and his arm outstretched, holding the bottle in place. His shoulders shifted with each heavy breath.

The child sucked greedily, and within a few minutes, spit the bottle out.

His screams immediately resumed.

"I thought she said you never cry!" Harlan insisted, as if the babe only needed to be reminded.

He grabbed the stuffed bear and shoved it forward.

The babe slapped it away.

His lungs were too small to be that loud. How was he that loud?

Harlan snatched a nappy, then spent a solid five minutes figuring out how to get the child free from the seat. He was strapped in like she'd planned to drop him from a plane.

When he finally managed, he lifted the boy out as if he were both fragile and contagious, then lowered him onto the couch cushion.

Harlan got a whiff of the problem. "Poo-yee!" If he smelled like that, he'd cry that hard too.

He undid the diaper as if disarming a bomb, then reached back to blindly search the pile for a wipe, coming up empty. "Don't that figure." He decided to use an extra diaper, refusing to spend any time hunting for a towel.

The child continued; red- faced, gut-deep, non-stop hollering.

Harlan wiped the boy clean, put the new diaper into position, and was about to fold it closed when a stream of pee hit him square in the mouth.

He jerked and fell backward onto his butt, wiping furiously at his face, then froze at the sound of a laugh.

He looked up.

The babe was sitting upright, grabbing his feet, and rocking as he giggled with the same ferocity he'd cried.

Harlan heaved a sigh, pursing his lips against a grin. "Think that's funny, do you? Well, you just keep laughing. First thing tomorrow morning, we're gonna go find your mama. You can go back to peeing on her."

But even as Harlan said it, he knew.

That girl was long gone.