“I know. He was out back, in the vacant lot. It’s an old weedy place where some of the kids go to drink or smoke or fool around. I spent all afternoon with Julie, his girlfriend. They’d gone back there to make love and had a big fight, and the next thing we know, he’s dead. Had his throat torn out. The sheriff thinks there’s a wild dog or something on the loose. Same thing got a biker kid out by Jane’s Cafe on Thursday night.”

Murder, he said. Murder. The word careened off the interior walls of my skull and I was unable to think of anything else. Murder. The word went around and around; I could almost see it as it passed across the back of my eyeballs. Murder. My mind caught on the snag and repeated it and repeated it until it was a meaningless assortment of sounds. Murder.

I hadn’t murdered the lad at all. I had loved him. I had loved him totally and completely, with my entire body and soul. I had loved him to his reward, to his peace. He’s away from that spiteful wench, they had not gone there to make love, she had lured him there to break his heart. Somehow, I knew the essence of her character. The boy had seen through her, but he had been in love with the idea of love. He wanted so much to be able to love her. Now he has real love. Now he’s at peace; he has his eternal resting place deep in the bosom of the place of calm. What right have they to use that terrible word—murder?

And by a wild dog! My work was clean that night. I tidied up with a towel, and left him clean and respectable. How dare they! My face flushed red and hot, and I shoved my hands deep into the jacket pockets. I dared not speak, for I knew that my voice would shake with indignation.

The silence fell around us again, but the air in the truck was different. It was tinged with anger—mine—and Boyd’s sorrow. Finally I could stand it no longer. I had to know more.

“Did you know him?” I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice.

“Not well. Knew who he was. Knew his girl, Julie. She’s a real nice kid, but of course she thinks it’s all her fault. The guilt is eating her alive.”

And so it should, I thought.

“Dan was my brother’s age. Bill knew him pretty well. In the same class and all.”