My brother was beside me instantly. He looked at Sheriff Rockwell for a long, long moment. “Then you have to find us a place to stay,” he said. “We gave up our motel room.”

With unexpected lucidity, Xylda said, “You can stay with us. It’ll be cramped, but it’s better than staying in the jail.”

I thought of squeezing in a bed with Xylda while Tolliver and Manfred slept two feet away. I thought of other possible sleeping arrangements. I thought the jail might be better. “Thanks so much,” I said, “but I’m sure the sheriff can help us find something.”

“I’m not your travel agent,” Rockwell said. She seemed to be glad to find something to be mad about. “But I realize you had planned on leaving, and I’ll try to think of something. It’s your fault the town’s this crowded.”

There was a long moment of silence in the barn, as everyone within hearing range stared at her.

“Not exactly your fault,” she said.

“I think not,” I said.

“Everyone in town has rented out every room they’ve got,” a deputy said. His uniform said he was Tidmarsh—Rob Tidmarsh, the neighbor, then. “The only place I can think of is Twyla Cotton’s lake house.”

The sheriff brightened. “Give her a call, Rob.” She turned back to us. “Thanks for coming here, and we’ll figure out what to do with the juvenile delinquent here.”

“He won’t go to jail?”

“Tom,” the sheriff said, raising her voice, “you and Chuck come here.”

The two looked relieved that someone was finally talking to them. I didn’t want Chuck anywhere close to me, and I took a couple of steps back. I knew he was only thirteen. I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me there and then. And I knew that his life was still full of choices and possibilities, and he could change himself if he saw the need to.

Sheriff Rockwell said, “Tom, we’re not going to take Chuck away from you.”

Tom Almand’s narrow shoulders slumped in relief. He was such a pleasant-looking man, the kind of guy who’d be glad to accept your UPS package from the carrier or to feed your cat while you were out of town. “So what will we need to do?” His voice caught on the words as though his mouth were dry.

“There’ll be a hearing with the judge. We’ll work it all out. What would help is you getting Chuck into some counseling—that should be easy, huh?—even before the hearing. And you gotta keep a watch on your kid.”

Sheriff Rockwell looked down at the boy, so I did, too. For God’s sake, he had freckles. There’d never been an Andy Griffith episode called “Opie Skins a Cat.”