The Sheriff jumps off the porch. “Thanks for the drink. Take care now!” He waves real friendly like, hops in the lead truck and pushes a shrill whistle through his teeth. Motors flare to life. The line of vehicles peels out, spewing gravel against our house.

I can’t believe it. They are leaving.

My heart pumps erratically as I try to breathe normal. A cold sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. I shiver and suck air.

Cold fingers wrap around my wrist. I jolt back, my foot slips off a slick rung, and I tumble. My flight through the air is short, the ground hard. The impact sends a snap of pain up my tailbone. I look up and make out my brother’s big brown eyes.

“Damn it, Ethan. Don’t scare me like that,” I snap. Then I see the terror running over his face. God, I’m dumb. He still thinks his whole family’s about to be murdered and I yelled at him.

I stand and squeeze him to me with one arm. “Sorry, little man.”

He pulls away. “Did they leave?”

“Yeah, munchkin.” I try to muss his hair, but my hand’s not done trembling. “Safe for another day.” I can’t believe it. We got so lucky.

He sighs and slips his hand in mine. “Don’t call me munchkin.”

“You got it, munchkin.” I stand aside while he mounts the ladder. Suddenly, I’m dead tired. The gun weighs a hundred pounds.

When we get in the house, Auntie Bell sits at the kitchen table. Her loose cotton dress sags against her bony shoulders. She’s braiding back her long, gray hair as she mutters something about a dirt pie. My stepfather stands at the window, watching the dust cloud fade. He’s got his hands in the pouch of his overalls, his thinking stance. My mama steps behind him, puts her hands around his waist and her head on his shoulder. Their love is so solid, like the beams that hold this house up. My stomach flip-flops with bittersweet longing. I am sixteen and the only boy I see is my eight-year-old brother. Love for me is like the sunset: beautiful from afar, but I can never touch it. Love is ancient history. I get safety instead.

When the dust cloud is only an image we’ll see in our nightmares, my mama slips away from Arn and lights a fire in the old stove.

“Riley, get the bread out of the pantry, please.” She grabs an opener and a dented can of beans.

“Nobody’s gonna talk about what just happened?” I ask no one in particular.

My stepfather flicks his eyes at me and then starts tucking his guns in their hiding places. Auntie Bell mutters under her breath. My mama drops the beans on the pan. They sizzle and pop as their bodies dance on the cast iron.

“Riley, we’re tired and hungry. Please get the bread.” Finality settles on her rutted face.

I head for the pantry. I may be the most wanted thing in the country, but I still have to listen to my mama.