He stood at the gates, with what little belongings he had wrapped in a soiled knapsack. He hadn't had a decent meal or shaved in the last ten days. The last job he'd been able to find was feeding slop to hogs. That had also been his last meal.

He knew supper would soon be ready. They'd be shelling the May peas, and the collards would be simmering with some ham hocks. He bet his sister had probably made some lemonade.

If only he could find the courage to walk down that road.

His dad was sitting on the porch, smoking his pipe. He saw a figure at the gate. The man, head bowed, was slowly walking towards the house. Dad sat up. He squinted and looked hard at the man, and recognized him. It was his son! It was the same guilty walk he once saw him make after he had broken Ma's new window with a ball.

He ran. The war wound made running difficult; that and his age. But he ran.

When he got to his son, they looked at each other for some time. Neither was sure how the other was going to react. Finally the father walked up and hugged his son and started crying.

Some of the field hands had seen the owner running towards this vagabond and had come running too. As they gathered around the father kept shouting, "This is my son! He was dead but now he is alive! This is my son!"

Later that day a fatted calf found itself on the menu.