As we step over the broken concrete steps and into the open, Clay’s there. His hat’s tucked into the crook of his arm and his damp hair clings to his forehead. His shirts stuck to his body with sweat. His normally clean-shaven face sprouts a stubbly beard. His eyes flick to mine for a second and then swing uncomfortably away. He throws his arm around my brother’s neck. “Come on, little bro. Pa brought us some chicken.”

Little bro? Pa? A flash of anger burns through me. He knows how to pile it on. I clench my hands and follow.

Clay leads us back to the campfire the boys have constructed in our house’s backyard. They’ve even pulled out some seating: a log, a kitchen chair with three legs, a nightstand, a fraying armchair. Hatch sets pink hunks of raw chicken on a cast iron skillet near the fire. The Sheriff sits in the armchair and tips a jar of brown liquid up to his mouth. Clay gestures to the log for Ethan and I. Then he sits down next to his father and takes a pull from the jar when it’s passed to him. The tart smell of homemade liquor fills the air.

My eyes flick to the Sheriff. He lounges in his ratty jeans, the stains around his pits a dark yellow. His little paunch belly sags over his belt buckle. His jagged C-shaped scar crinkles when he lets out one of his big belly laughs. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“So, missus,” he says, leaning toward me, his thick hand on his knee. “Tell me what’s so special ’bout you that made my son run out on his ol’ man.” His smile is wide, but in the flickering firelight, his eyes look calculating.

Clay fingers tighten around the jar he’s holding. “Pa, don’t.”

The Sheriff emits a dark laugh. “I’m just introducin’ m’self since you wouldn’t do me the pleasure.”

Clay glowers at his father. “Riley doesn’t want to talk.” Then he takes a big drink from the jar, swallows and winces.

The Sheriff snatches the jar out of Clay’s hands, takes a long pull and wipes his mouth across the back on his arm. “See, here’s the thing. I paid for this filly—”

Clay stiffens. “She has a name.”

The Sheriff cackles and slaps his knee. He tilts his head toward me slightly. “Beg yer pardon, missus. Force a habit.” His smile widens to let us all know he’s not one bit sorry.

“All’s I want to know, Riley,” he says exaggeratedly, looking at Clay. “Exactly what feminine wiles you worked on C-boy here,” he slaps Clay on the shoulder roughly, “to make ’im pick a cooz over his own pa.”

My cheeks burn red at what he’s insinuating. Clay’s jaw is a rock.