We gathered buckets, shoveled soil into them, buried exposed root networks, swamped each tree from the rain catchment Rudy had rigged off the toolshed roof.

“You mind if I ask what the hell was up with the .22 this morning?” Rudy said as he Sharpied labels and I stuck them on buckets.

“I didn’t know what I’d find out here,” I said.

“You know how to use it or what?” he asked.

“Yeah, I know how to use it,” I said.

“Didn’t, though,” he said.

“What did you want me to do?” I asked. “Shoot the helicopter out of the sky?”

“Warning shot couldn’t hurt,” he said.

“What about you?” I asked. “If you’re so into guns, why don’t you have one?”

“Have one but don’t feel the need to go flashing it around,” he said. He peeled up the piece of waxed cardboard, which was his mattress, and displayed a twelve-gauge shotgun. “Didn’t need it anyway,” he said. “I had my bling for protection.”

“Your bling?” I asked.

He picked up the Greek drama pendant. “Like my forefathers,” he said. “Celtic warriors liked to get naked and paint themselves blue. Scared the shit out of their adversaries.”

“But no one in that helicopter could even see your bling,” I said.

“Did you see how low they were flying?” he asked. He fingered the shotgun thoughtfully. “When it comes to guns,” he said, “you can always use practice.”

So we set up Rudy’s empty Natural Ice cans, and we spent the rest of the day on target practice. I had other things I needed to be doing. I had acorns to rake, rabbits to snare, roots to dig, cattails waiting in the bog, but Rudy insisted.

“Your neighbors will hear it. That’s always useful,” he said. He sprayed one final round of shot, sending the beer cans flying into the woods. Far below us on the road, Perley’s school bus pulled up in front of our mailbox and sighed open its door, releasing Perley and Bexley. I stood up and waved. “Perley! Bexley!” I called, but at the sound of my voice, Bexley took off running across the road toward the Epps place. Perley came bobbing straight up the pipeline in his hopelessly oversize T-shirt, his dorky sweatpants. Skill is one thing, style is another.

“Mean Aunt,” he said when he reached the top, “are you ready to get acorns?”

“Why did Bexley run off like that?” I asked, and he let out that new laugh of his, a mirthless one-note thing.

“That kid’s been a shithead to you, isn’t it?” said Rudy. Perley smiled at the ground.

“Bexley’s my friend,” he said.

“Just say so if you want me to kick his ass for you,” said Rudy.

“You will not be kicking the ass of a seven-year-old,” I said.

“Bexley’s eight,” said Perley. “He got held back.”