I look out over the dusty landscape. The dry land shimmers in the heat. The green cacti are the only color dotting the sea of brown. “Arn says you ain’t old enough to shoot when he ain’t around.”

He sighs and peers over the gun, aiming at a rock formation. His fingers stay away from the trigger though. He’s much more obedient than I am. A few years ago when Arn taught me to shoot, I pulled the trigger long before he gave me permission.

I put my hand on my little brother’s shoulder. “You’re holding the barrel wrong.” I slide his hand into place.

“I can fire just once?”

I muss his hair. “Sure. What Arn don’t know won’t kill him, right?”

* * *

When Arn never returns from town, my words haunt me all night long.

Chapter Three

We sit around the kitchen table as the first rays of daylight bleed into the horizon. It is seven-thirty. Arn has been gone for twenty-two hours.

When I awoke this morning, I found my mama at the table with her mug of weak tea. Her red, puffy eyes let me know she’d been crying. Yet, when I sat down with her, she smiled at me, her eyes dry. Somehow it comforts me, though I know it’s just a show.

One by one we gathered at the table. The kitchen window looks out on the dry, gravel path where Arn disappeared yesterday morning. For an hour we have watched, not speaking as the dust swirls in little sand tornadoes across the road.

Arn usually returns before nightfall whenever he goes to town. The road is dangerous after dark. Marauders will run cars off the road, steal their goods and kill the occupants. Arn is smart, careful and a crack shot with his rifle. It’s how he’s kept us safe this long. I tell myself this as I watch the red and orange hues spread across the east.

Hundreds of reasonable problems could’ve befallen my stepfather. The old Jeep could’ve died, despite his deftness at fixing it, leaving him stranded. He could’ve had trouble trading for enough fuel. He could’ve been too tired to ride the four hours back home and slept in the safety of the town walls. Yet, those aren’t the thoughts that run riot in my mind as we wait. I think about someone shooting him in the back because they wanted his rifle. I think about his mangled body lying on the side of the road. I think about Arn never coming home.

I glance at my family. Auntie’s face registers no emotion, but her stubby fingernails click rapidly on the tabletop. Ethan’s trying hard not to cry, but any minute the dam will break. My mama sits, her face a mask of muted sorrow. Her spoon clinks around her mug, stirring tea that has long since grown cold.

I can’t just sit here. Bounty moos from the barn. Arn wasn’t here for her morning milking. I push up from my chair.