The Astrovan, the Neon, and the dogs have all fled into the night, so what’s stopping Henry? Truck at a standstill. Engine gurgling in neutral. Right boot eases off the brake pedal. The truck humps over the slope’s network of tire ruts as it crawls toward the service road, toward anywhere but here, and then his boot stomps back into the brake.

A lurch, a wobble, stillness.

Henry tilts the rearview mirror, aiming it over by the Mustang where he’s left the dogmonger. Too dark and far to detect any sign of movement, and so he angles the mirror to check the bench seat behind him. A heap of blankets, shadows. Hooded in Mom’s shawl floats the pale oval of Junior’s face, all dreamy and feeble. Henry reaches back to stroke the boy’s hot cheek, tugs the shawl over his mouth like an outlaw’s bandana. Not sure whether it’s the thought of Junior seeing him do what he’s got to—what he can’t not do—or if it’s the sight of the boy’s face itself that Henry can’t bear. Could be both or neither, and either way he throws the gear stick in reverse.

The truck hobbles, backing up the slope. When it swings around, the beams spotlight the dogmonger, sprawled under the Mustang’s front bumper. Everything that’d happened in the heat of the night and smear of the shadows takes on a garish veracity, a beyond-a-reasonable-doubt lucidity.

Only a matter of minutes till sirens cast everything in a strobe light of crimson and cobalt, cobalt and crimson. Questions and handcuffs and Henry promised he would never, ever go back. But something won’t let him leave. Won’t let him flee like the dogs and the others, like he should, like he must.

A stomp, a creak, and the emergency brake meets the floorboard. He can’t step out till this grisly scene, rocking in the headlights’ glare, steadies.

He can’t soften his footfalls against the gravel. The blood so black before, now illuminated, is a fire truck red, and there’s so, so much of it oozing from the divot in the dogmonger’s gored face. The eyes of this sticky red mask are stretched into white ping-pong balls that lock onto Henry. Pupils dilate when each attempt to speak only escapes as a retch. No language needed to articulate this shade of fear.

Something rustles.

A hand lifts. At first Henry recoils, expecting a punch or throat snatch. But the fingers are spread, weak and trembling and almost pitiful, working through the air toward Henry’s. As if to say please—please don’t leave me. Not like this, not alone.

The dogmonger’s hand hovers there, quivering, imploring the comfort of his assailant’s touch. Henry sighs. Tugs a sleeve past his fingertips.