“No, Michigan.”
“Sure ‘nought? Had an aunt move out there, Flint. You know Flint?
“Yeah, I know Flint.” Milkman’s feet were singing, the tender skin of the ball louder than the heels.
He dared not spread his toes, lest the singing never stop.”
“What kind a place is it, Fint?
“Live, No place you’d want to go”
“Thought so, name sounds good, but I thought it’d be like that”