Nate stared at the figure, slumped between the officers, moving toward them. He recognized the work boots and the old blue jeans, the mop of sandy hair. The part that was new was the blood, pouring down his face, and the terrible, crumpled expression. It looked as if the weight of the whole world were pressing down on his shoulders, as if something had broken inside him that could not be fixed. He must have put his hands to his face at some point, because they were bloody too, and on his work pants were splotches of deep red.

“What’s going on?” Nate called out, his voice as choked as if a pair of hands clutched his throat. The officer was holding him by the shoulders.

His mom was there too, putting her arms around him, or trying to. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, but she didn’t sound like she believed it.

“I need to see my dad,” Nate yelled, louder this time.

From one of the cruisers, Nate could make out the crackling sound of the dispatcher on the radio and one of the policemen answering in the clipped tone Nate had heard on Dragnet, where whatever terrible thing was going on that week on the show was boiled down to a few flat syllables.

“Victim of a gunshot wound over at the Chance farm,” the policeman said into the microphone. “Guy’s been missing since this morning, but the dogs finally located him, wandering the back forty. From where the bullet entered his head, you’d never think he could’ve survived.”

“I have to see him,” Nate yelled. More desperate now.

“Daddy!” It was Junie this time. They were putting her father in the back of an ambulance that had pulled up, and she was wriggling and crying, trying to get free of the police officer’s grasp.

“Bullet must’ve missed his brain,” the officer said into the transmitter. “That’s the miracle of it. Unclear exactly what happened. The guy isn’t making any sense.”

For a long minute Nate didn’t move. He heard one of the officers, calling again to get the kids in the house; the barking of the bloodhounds; the police car idling out front; Aunt Sal’s car pulling onto the gravel drive next to them. He could hear the faint, muffled weeping of Junie—who seemed to have gotten the impression the blood came from the dogs biting their dad. He heard the cows, overdue to be milked, lowing in the barn and Rufus muttering, “See what I mean? Crazy.”

From his mother, no sound.

Nate smelled sweat and realized it was his own. He could feel the thick arms of the police officer, wrapping around his waist and lifting him off the ground, as he bucked to free himself.

“Get your hands off me,” he yelled. “Just leave me alone.”