Getting home was a relief. Dale wasn’t there. I’d let the geese out before I left and they had gathered in the shade under the porch. I crouched before them and Woman hissed at me in greeting.

“I nearly got shot dead today by a crazy shut-in with cowboy skills,” I told her. “What did you guys do?”

The geese waddled out from under the porch, inspired by my presence, and started pecking at the lawn. Woman walked with me behind the main group, listening while I updated her on the Barking Frog case. We came to the wire fence and stood for a while side by side, man and goose, looking for signs of danger on the surface of the water. When we found none I went to the little tub of goose food I kept on the porch and unclipped the lid, filled a cup with the mixture of grains, pellets, and dry grass. The geese mainly lived on the fresh grass of my lawn, but this mixture kept them fat and happy, and it was a good tool to get them to go where I wanted them to if I had to herd them back into the playhouse or up onto the porch quickly. I shook the cup and they came waddling toward me as fast as they could, all except Woman, who wasn’t so easily driven into a frenzy. As I walked the cup of mixture back down to the lawn, I saw Dale Bingley appear from around the side of the house, sweaty like he’d been out walking in the heat.

We said nothing. The crackling tension of the night before wasn’t there, but I knew it could swell to cyclonic levels in an instant. He stood beside me as I scattered the lawn with the mixture, the geese huddled before me, pecking and sifting through the grass.

“Do they have names?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, clearing my throat. My face was reddening. “But they’re not. Uh. I mean, I’m the only one who lives here so I named them things only I really understand.”

He stared at me.

“That’s Squishbird,” I admitted, pointing to a bird. “She always used to end up squished in the huddle when they’d sleep at night beside their mother. Sometimes all the other birds would pile on top of her, covering her completely.”

“Squishbird,” Dale said. I thought I marked the tiniest flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. This was humiliating.

“Bitey Bulger.” I pointed to another bird. “Like the gangster. Whitey. Whitey Bulger.”

“He bites?”

“Not hard.” I put my hand out. As usual Bitey rose up and started biting the side of my hand and wrist, snapping my fingers in short, tugging nips. “He’s always done it. I don’t know why. Maybe it feels good.”

Dale watched as the bird returned its attention to the grass. I looked at the cup half full of mixture in my hand.