I reach Kaufman and kneel. His eyes are partially closed and rolled back white. His mouth hangs open. Blood from a broken tooth that’s pierced his lower lip trickles down his chin. At first glance I think he’s dead, then I notice the rise and fall of his chest. Blood coming through his shirt on his left side just above the waistband of his trousers. A gunshot wound.

“Don’t try to move,” I tell him. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”

His lids flutter. His eyes focus on my face. “Heeda der saus,” he whispers.

Beware the hogs.

The back of my neck prickles. I look over my shoulder. The larger hogs are devouring the fallen bits of hay, threatening the younger animals with snapping jaws when they dart in to steal a scrap.

“What the hell’s wrong with them?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. But I already know. They’re starving. And the reality of the situation sends a quiver of fear through my gut.

“Can you walk?” I ask.

He tries to sit up. His face contorts with pain, and he only manages to flop around like a fish. “My legs … broken, I think.”

“Mr. Kaufman, we need to get out of this pen.”

“The gate.” He motions to a steel gate secured with a chain. “There.”

I look around for his rifle, but it’s nowhere in sight. Bending, I grab his right wrist and start to drag him across the concrete. Kaufman cries out, but I don’t stop. He’s not a large man, but he’s dead weight, and it takes every bit of strength I possess to move him. Progress is excruciatingly slow. I try to avoid the pigs and the patches of stinking black muck, but the pen is crowded and filthy and I don’t quite manage.

I’m fifteen feet from the gate when a shot rings out. I look toward the loft door to see Abigail Kaufman with the rifle to her shoulder, her eye on the sights. Releasing Kaufman’s wrist, I duck down. “Abigail! No! Put down the rifle!”

She doesn’t comply. Gives me no indication that she even heard me. Another shot cracks. A ricochet zings off the concrete inches from Kaufman’s head.

I have no cover. She’s at a high vantage point, thirty feet away, close enough even for someone unaccustomed to firearms to hit their mark. “Put down the gun!” I scream. “Do it now!”

Bending, never taking my eyes off her, I reach for Kaufman, grip his wrist, and pull. “Help me, damn it,” I tell him.

Face contorted, he scrabbles with his left leg. When he looks up at me, I see pain and terror in his eyes. “My legs…”