He listened to her—“We know you can do all things, Heavenly Father, we believe that you know all and see all”—and wanted to believe that this might have some impact on them finding the dog, but he didn’t think it would. Not anymore. The way they thought of God and prayer and worship was so different now that it might as well have been a wide river between them, further widened by floodwaters. Asher remained patient throughout her long prayer but as soon as she finished he let go of her hand and bolted from the room and went outside.

He roamed back and forth beneath the cover of the porch, hands cupped around his mouth, hollering the little dog’s name again and again. He kept expecting Roscoe to race into the yard—zigzagging around the three dogwoods in his showing-off way—and then skip up the steps and wend his wet body between Asher’s legs, jumping up to lick Justin on the mouth. But he did not come.

“He probably got turned around because of the water being over his path,” Asher said to Justin when he came out. They both knew of Roscoe’s love for wading in the shoals in the mornings, rain or not. Asher found himself lying to his son again, something he had promised himself he would never do. “He’s smart. He’ll find his way back.”

Justin turned his attention back to the sopping yard. He squinted his eyes to see through the spears of rain, watching for his dog.

The house had grown hot. They opened all of the windows but this did little more for the heat than to add dampness. Zelda and Lydia cooked supper on the gas stove. They used what they could from the freezer since it would all thaw out and be ruined anyway. The adults picked at the pork chops and fried corn, nudging the food around their plates with forks, picking up their slices of bread only to sit them back down, uneaten. Only Justin was able to eat.

After supper Asher stood at the window and watched the rain lash at the glass as greenish-gray clouds loomed overhead. Lydia came up behind him without warning and put her hand on the soft meat of his upper arm, causing him to draw away in a startled flinch.

“Why couldn’t you pray aloud with me?” she asked, quietly. “For Roscoe.”

“I said my own kind of prayer, Lydia.”

“But you couldn’t pray with me,” she said. “Y’all everyone cut me out. Push me away. You, my own little boy, my own mother.” Her brow was knitted with grief. “Feels like I’m all alone in this world.”

“I’m sorry it feels that way,” he said, and after a time she stepped away into the shadows.