It was a thin whisper, was all. I could barely hear it. I checked to be sure my .22 was ready, and crawled out of the coop.

I went to check on Jerry first. I knelt next to him, not realizing right away that the cool, thick wet I felt wicking its way into my pant legs, spreading in all directions around my knees, was Jerry's blood. His breathing was ragged and shallow. I took the shotgun out of his hands, kissed his bald spot, and whispered, “I'm sorry, Jerry.”

“My leg, Gracie.”

Jerry was bleeding bad from a wound in his thigh, near his groin but, luckily, not into his delicates. I grabbed at a pile of oil-soaked rags near the old Farmall, and Jerry winced when I pushed down, trying to put some pressure on the wound. The oil wasn't perfect, probably, but those rags were all I had to stanch the bleeding.

“You all right, Jerry?”

“That bastard shot me.”

“You shot first.”

“Accident,” Jerry said, and then he shuddered, and then he passed out. I made a tourniquet then, tight as I could. The blood slowed, but still it seeped and puddled into the folds of the oil rag, staining it further. I must have gotten a little lost in the image, because when I heard Smith call my name, I felt a chunk of time I could not quantify had fallen away from me.

“Grace,” Smith whispered. I looked his way. One of his hands raised up off the floor and held still for a minute, like he was giving me a real casual wave hello. It confused me, that wave, like maybe he wasn't as hurt as he seemed, but when I got closer I could tell he was. His gun was still in his hand. He wasn't pointing it at me on purpose, but the angle made me nervous, so I gently reached over and took it from him.

“Smith?” I said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Smith managed a weak smile. “Dying, I think.”

“No.”

“Maybe. I brought you a rose, Grace.”

The rose was now fully immersed in a puddle of blood. When Smith picked it up and handed it to me, blood dripped off the tips and ran in warm, viscous rivulets down his hand and under the cuff of his fancy blazer.

“That's real nice of you, Smith.”

“You want to have dinner sometime?”

“Sure, Smith, but first I'm going to get you and Jerry over to Fran's. She can help you.”

“Fran was my piano teacher when I was a boy.”

“Yes.”

“I killed all her chickens. I didn't want to, Gracie. I know what you mean, that thing you said about sheds and people and fear. But I did it anyway. It was my job, and I did it.”

“You sure did.”

“Fran hates me now.”