Red
Blood is easy to obtain in the Depression; pigs are being butchered everywhere. And the men who speak passionately at the crossroads tell him that he has the right to what he needs.
They also want him to give back what he can – by which he's not sure what, or why. Occasionally, when he feels faint guilt at the farmers' desperation, he sleeps in barns and makes the rats flee from the smell of death.
Come dusk he moves on. The campaigners stack their pamphlets, ready to return another day. Somewhere they see more than hurried meals and scanty reparation.