Pete fired a scattergun into the air. He was training the dogs not to react to gunfire. Watching this gave Paul pride. A lot of pride.

The bloodhounds sat in a cluster, watching the trees, when Pete fired the gun. They rested only on their haunches, except one dog, Judith, who bolted for parts unknown after the first shot. Paul grabbed her before she got away. He held the frightened dog close to his chest and said, “There, there, sweetie, ain’t nothing to be afraid of.”

But it did no good. Some dogs were like Judith. In Paul’s experience, no amount of training could purge fear from some animals. Judith bolted from him, running so hard she kicked grass behind her.

Pete turned to see the dog running.

“Let ’er go,” Paul said. “Maybe she’ll make a good squirrel dog, or at least a coon tracker.”

Paul had turned the training duties over to Pete little by little, until Pete was doing all the training. And Paul marveled to see the boy instruct a pack of bloods the way he used to do, long ago when he was a young man. Pete had sensitivity with animals that Paul himself did not have. It was a kind of talent that was almost holy.

The swells of parental pride grew bigger within Paul. They grew beyond simple emotions, until he felt an actual pain in his chest. The pain became sharper. It was a physical agony that made his breathing labored. And his arm hurt. His neck got tight. His vision dimmed. Now he was getting worried.

He rose and wandered from Pete, loosening his arm, pumping his fist. The pain was getting worse. And worse.

The sound of a scattergun filled the world.

Dogs baying.

Whimpering.

More gun noise.

More howling.

Paul stumbled toward the barn. He collapsed in the dirt behind the barn, where nobody could see him. He panted. He moaned. The pain became so great he almost lost consciousness. His stomach felt weak, and his mouth salivated. He leaned against the barn, staring at the sky. He expected to see the clouds open. But he did not.

Another shot.

Dogs wailing.

The pain was worsening. He gritted his teeth. He had all sorts of things he wanted to say to the Old Man Upstairs, but the only words he could get out were, “Take care of my babies, Lord.”

He said it over and over. He said it so many times it became less about the words and more about keeping his mouth moving, to prove to himself he was still alive.

“TakecareofthemLordtakecareofthemLordtakecareofthemLord . . .”

Then he saw Ruth standing before him. She appeared so quickly, he almost missed her altogether. He stared at her tall shape against the sky. He could see the sun’s brightness poking through strands of her red hair.

She was his angel. She’d always been his angel.

“What’s wrong, Paul?” she said. “What’s happening?”