“People say it for a reason. It’s because he’s done stuff that’s crazy.”

“He helped us, Libby. Grow up.”

I could think of plenty of things wrong with Wilson McVay. Our dead cat, Mr. Franklin, for one. Thomas had named him after Benjamin Franklin, who according to legend once spent a night lost on the mountain. We’d found Mr. Franklin as a kitten in the woods. We believed Wilson had killed him. People said he killed neighbors’ pets with his BB gun, and when we found Mr. Franklin dead he had circular wounds in his side.

I had seen firsthand how crazy Wilson was, and so had Marie. Years earlier, when I was eleven or twelve, we were sitting on the swings at the Sun Bowl and Wilson was circling around on a dirt bike, making attempts to go up the rock hill at the far end. He’d try a few times and then come up toward the swings and rev the bike, kicking up the dust on the ground in front of us. A group of older guys had shown up and were hanging around on the basketball court. I didn’t like the look of them either. When Wilson passed them on the bike, one of them, a guy with no shirt, called something after him, like “Psycho.” Wilson circled back around. When he passed, the same guy commented, “Even the lunatics came out to play,” and the others laughed. Wilson turned again and drove straight at him. He never hesitated or veered, only missing the shirtless guy because he jumped out of the way. The guy picked himself up and shouted, “Who let you out of the asylum, asshole?” Wilson dropped the bike, ran straight at him, and jumped, smashing his own head against the guy’s forehead. He stood stunned for a second, and then just folded to the ground at Wilson’s feet. “He’s knocked him out,” someone shouted. Wilson walked past where we were on the swings, and I saw how he looked.