More glass on the porch. Auntie’s rocker rests on its side in the empty flowerbed. But no bodies. Then my eyes find a trail of blood that streaks the porch boards and continues down the steps.

The sick panic cripples me. Whose blood paints our porch? I lean my head against the window frame and close my eyes. I can’t do this. I can’t search for the bodies of my family. My trembling hand smears tears across my cheeks. But, I can’t leave them out there for the coyotes to pick apart. I wipe my face with my sleeve. My stomach’s lined with lead as I pull open the front door.

The screen door dangles crookedly by one hinge. There’s the streak of blood and one bloody footprint. I lean down and examine the smeared red stain. My mama’s? I look up through the yard, expecting a body. Big tire tracks cut through the dirt where the trucks peeled out last night. Here and there, the dust is tinted deep brown. I’ve killed enough rabbits to know a bloodstain. A stray boot lies about fifteen yards from the porch. It doesn’t look like Arn’s. Hopefully one of those bastards took a bullet. Hopefully more than one.

With no bodies and no sign of what happened to my family, I turn back in. What if they’re wounded and hiding upstairs? As I stalk toward my bedroom, the fear of being watched settles on me again. I know that if they wanted me, they would’ve come down in the cellar and taken me. Unless Clay didn’t tell them we were down there. But why wouldn’t he?

I pull up to my bedroom and listen. Nothing but my breath, hot and fast. I push the door open with my toe, the ax held high. The door gives a loud screech as it opens.

“Riley?” A voice behind me.

“Ahhh!” I brandish the ax.

Ethan’s face twists in fear.

“Jesus, Ethan!” I drop the ax and put my other hand to my beating heart. “Thought I told you to stay in the cellar.”

He steps beside me until his hip’s touching mine. He’s carrying a rusty kitchen knife. He peers down the hall with frightened eyes. “Where’s Mama and Dad?”

“I don’t know, but let me handle this.” I push him towards the back door.

He digs in his heels. “I can’t stay down there no more. What I’m thinking about can’t be worse than what’s up here.”

I know what he means about pictures in your head. Mine’s flooded with horrible possibilities. I take his hand and together we slip quietly up the stairs.

The upstairs hallway is tensely quiet. The scuffed wood floor sighs under our weight. With shaking hands I push open two bedroom doors. Nothing. Everyone’s gone. My eyes linger on the soft-bristled brush on my mother’s dresser. Will she ever use it again? I stumble out of her room before the ghost of her presence suffocates me.

We head downstairs and slump on the couch. Neither of us says a word. I can’t think. I can’t feel. I sit in a trance. An hour passes before Ethan’s stomach rumbles. It’s noon and we haven’t eaten or drank anything since dinner last night.