"Not yet," George told his clever brother.
"We eat, then. No sense in waiting for him. He knows the supper hour," Bill said, and since he was the clever one, they ate.
#
Joe returned as the sun was rising, and burrowed in between his brothers on their nest of blankets. George flung one leg over his smallest brother, and smelled the liquor on his breath in his sleep, and his dreams were tainted with the stink of rotting grapes.
George was the first one awake, preparing the morning meal. A maggoty side of beef, ripe with the vitality of its parasites, and gravel. Joe came for breakfast before Bill, as was his custom. Bill needed the sleep, to rest his cleverness.
"God-damn, I am hungry!," Joe said loudly, without regard for his sleeping brother.
"You missed dinner," George said.
"I had more important things to do," Joe said. "I was out with an Imagineer!"
George stared hard at him. "What did the Imagineer want? Is there trouble?"
Joe gave a deprecating laugh. "Why do you always think there's trouble? The guy wanted to chat with me — he likes me, wants to get to know me. His name is Woodrow, he's in charge of a whole operations division, and he was interested in what I thought of some of his plans." He stopped and waited for George to be impressed.