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Chapters (77)
  1. Cover
  2. Title
  3. Also by Silas House
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. Part One
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. Part Two
  27. 1
  28. 2
  29. 3
  30. 4
  31. 5
  32. 6
  33. 7
  34. 8
  35. 9
  36. 10
  37. Part Three
  38. 1
  39. 2
  40. 3
  41. 4
  42. 5
  43. 6
  44. 7
  45. 8
  46. 9
  47. 10
  48. 11
  49. 12
  50. 13
  51. 14
  52. 15
  53. 16
  54. 17
  55. 18
  56. 19
  57. 20
  58. 21
  59. 22
  60. 23
  61. 24
  62. 25
  63. 26
  64. 27
  65. 28
  66. 29
  67. 30
  68. 31
  69. Part Four
  70. 1
  71. 2
  72. 3
  73. Epilogue: The Everything
  74. Acknowledgments
  75. About the Author
  76. About Algonquin
  77. Copyright

Asher set his eyes on her in a way to warn her against saying more. Why shouldn’t the boy be able to grieve over his dog?

Zelda looked from Asher to her daughter, letting them both know that this was no night to argue.

Lydia made her voice tender, quieter: “If he doesn’t toughen up I’m afraid the world’ll eat him alive.”

Asher rose and took his son with him out to the porch.

They stood listening to the moan and groan of the impregnated river. No lights anywhere. The threatening convulsions of lightning, way off in the distance back toward Nashville. Asher looked up. The clouds had drifted away and with all electricity gone there were more stars than he had ever seen in his life, stars strewn out in such a mass that they looked like shimmery silver clouds.

“Look, Justin,” he said. “Look at all the stars.”

“God,” Justin whispered.

And then: he was gone.

2

2

Asher ran to the ridge first. Justin’s favorite place. He hoped that’s where he had gone instead of down to the boiling river that had spilled over into the lower yard. He knew that Justin was trying to find Roscoe.

Asher raced behind the house and past the toolshed, one corner being devoured by the saturated ground, past their ruined garden—his bushy tomato plants beaten down into the rich black dirt by the rain, full ditches between each destroyed row—and onto the path that led up the ridge. Here the earth was so wet it sucked at his shoes. Up ahead were the thick woods crowding the ridge behind their house. Asher stopped at the mouth of the path to allow his eyes to adjust.

The woods were all blackness, the full trees of high summer blocking out any starlight that might have guided his way. But he knew these woods so well he could walk through them with his eyes closed. The noise down at the river seemed larger now, a wall of grinding and moaning. Trees and cars rubbing up against refrigerators and the roofs of houses. Still Asher was sure he had heard Roscoe barking. Perhaps Justin had heard this, too, and was following the deceptive sound. Hearing has a way of fooling itself to believe what it wants.