Somehow I find the strength to stand. “Canned beans okay?”

He nods and then goes back to staring at light trickling through the bullet holes in our living room wall.

I drag myself to the pantry, but when I get there, something’s wrong. The shelves are bare. I run a hand over the planking, my fingers brushing past a circular rust stain. This pantry was stocked yesterday. Today it’s bare. Where did it all go? There’s no cans on the floor. I peer into the kitchen and then back at the shelves. It takes my deadened brain a few beats to realize what’s happened. They took our food. Every canned good—the dried fruit, bread, flour, rice, carrots, apples. All gone.

The bastards stole our family and now our only chance at survival.

The livestock. Banging out of the pantry, I stumble through the kitchen and out the front door. I break into a run around to the barn. I push open the barn doors.

“Bounty?” My voice breaks.

The minute I’m not greeted by her mooing, I know she’s gone. And why wouldn’t they take her? She’s a commodity, useful, tradable. Just like my family.

I fall to the barn floor and lie in the dust. The sobs run though me for what seems like hours. Until there are no tears left. Until I’m hollow.

Sometime later Ethan’s small hand slides over my back. His trembling voice cuts through my stupor. “Riley, I … I found Dad.”

By the sound of his voice, I know Arn’s gone. Empty of tears, a dark numbness covers me. I take Ethan’s hand and he leads me through the barn and around back. There, in the shade of our dead apple trees, is Arn’s motionless body. His blood paints the ground beneath him a deep, muddy brown. His legs and arms are extended at odd angles. Someone dragged him here and left his body for the coyotes.

This is all my fault. I led his killer right to him.

As we approach, Ethan begins to shake. I stop and put my hands on his shoulders. “You don’t have to do this,” I say, looking into his eyes. “I can bury him myself.” Can I? I’m not even sure I can take another step.

He shakes his head and wipes at the tears that trickle into the dust on his red cheeks. “He’s my dad. I need to bury him.”

Today, my brother becomes a man, though I would trade all I had in the world to keep him a boy.

We arrange Arn’s body so it looks like he’s sleeping. It gives me some comfort to see him lying back, eyes closed, arms over his chest, like he’s fallen asleep in the shade. We get shovels and spend the rest of the day pouring our pain into the dirt. We bury Arn as the red sunset bleeds out across the horizon. Neither one of us cries. The grief is too big for tears.

* * *