“Fine,” she says. It’s still a bad idea, and she stands there on the other side of the road pinching the bridge of her nose and fighting a headache. “But you need to wait in the car.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Okay.”

They’re bringing Donny out on a stretcher and he’s not screaming anymore because they must’ve given him something. His one hand dangles off the stretcher and it’s coated with blood. His. From where he cupped the wound. Atlanta’s not sure how bad it is or what kind of damage she did, only that he bled like a throat-slit goat and screamed for a long, long time.

Mama’s on the porch, crying.

Everything is red and blue lights, painting the house, the windows, the field. It goes slow, then fast, then slow again.

Crackle of radios. Wind across the grass and the corn. Atlanta shivers. Wants to cry but can’t, and is worried that not crying is a real bad sign. Like now she’s broken or something, irrevocably, irretrievably, never the same girl again.

Detective Holger puts a blanket across her shoulders like they do on television and hunkers down. She’s a bulldog of a woman, hair cut short and mouth in a permanent frown, but her words don’t match the frown, and she says, “Honey, I know this is hard, but you’re going to need to come with me, now.”

“I know,” Atlanta says, shaking like a leaf in a hard wind. “I’m sorry for what I did.”

Holger leans in. “Between you and me, I’m not. I’m not saying what you did was right, but I’m not saying it was wrong, either. And I’m damn sure not saying I would’ve done differently. You hear me?”

Gamely, Atlanta nods.

Then she’s up and ushered to the car, and Holger opens the back of the car—not a cruiser but a dinged-up gray Ford Taurus many years out of date—and sitting there in the back is Chris Coyne holding the little terrier, and he smiles that winning smile and says, “I hope you’re ready for all this.”

And she says, “I’m not.” And then, “This is a dream, isn’t it?”

He winks. The dog barks.

She wakes up, soaked to the bone in sweat. Teeth chattering like they did on that day.

Week later, Guy’s outside in his boxy Scion, honking the horn. Atlanta reaches into her closet, plucks the .410 shotgun from inside. Her hands tremble as she picks it up. Finger alongside the outer edge of the trigger guard. Part of her thinks, Just put it away. No good can come of this. Park it. Forget it. And that’s what she decides to do.