When confronted, Willard had shown no interest in his father’s suffering. When asked why he hadn’t come down to offer his help, Willard had refused to answer. In fact he’d looked straight through Thedford as though he weren’t even there. Even a few good licks across the chest from Thedford’s belt hadn’t managed to get Willard’s attention. If anything, the boy had acted only more spiteful, looking back at his father with an expression of flagrant indifference.

What’s more, Thedford had discovered that one of his horses was missing, and Willard didn’t have an answer for that, either.

Thedford seethed as the episode replayed in his mind. Even now, hours after he’d locked Willard in his room, it still made his blood boil to think about it.

He cursed. Here he’d been awake for only ninety seconds, and he was pissed off all over again.

He was also hungry and craved eggs.

He clicked off the TV and set the remote on the floor next to Waylon, the pit bull snoring at his feet. He felt light-headed when he stood, but at least his head wasn’t spinning. In fact, he felt pretty grounded.

Thedford went to the refrigerator and found only a liter bottle of RC Cola and a furry block of Velveeta.

“Willard!” he shouted down the hall. “Did you eat all the goddamn eggs?”

Willard didn’t answer.

“I’m talking to you, boy!” He marched down the hall to his son’s door. Remembering that he had locked it, he took a step back and kicked. The knob clattered to the floor, and the door wobbled open. “Wake up, goddamnit, I’m starvi . . .”

A blast of cold air hit him in the face. The room was empty. Willard was gone. The window beside the dresser had been smashed. The curtains fluttered over the room like white ghosts as rain blew in through the broken glass

Thedford turned hot with anger. “Sonofabitch!”

He marched back through the house, went out the front door, and looked across the driveway. The pickup was still where he had last parked it. Across the pasture, he saw a light glowing in the barn.

“Little bastard!”

He stumbled down the porch steps and climbed into the truck. He started it up, jammed the gear down, and floored the pedal. The tires screamed, spinning in the mud. Already soaked to the bone, he resigned himself to continue on foot. Before striking out, he checked to ensure that he was still wearing his belt, which he had every intention of using on Willard’s insolent ass.

Rain pricked his face as he tramped across the pasture, his path lit only by the occasional flutter of lightning. “What the hell are you doing down here, boy?” he called minutes later when he reached the corral outside the barn. “Goddamnit, Willard, I’m gonna strap you good for th—”