“Junie!” their father yelled, holding his arms out to break her landing, but it was too late. She slammed into the side of the barn wall, hard, and dropped to the ground like a bird hitting a window.

For a moment she just lay there, no sound coming out of her. When she finally cried, they ran to her. “I’m sorry, Junebug,” Nate’s dad kept saying. Over and over, “I’m sorry.”

He carried her into the house, her head cradled in his arms and her cowboy boots dangling. By then she wasn’t wailing so much as whimpering. “It’s okay, Daddy,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

When their mother saw Junie—blood on her overalls, blood in her hair—she shrieked. First she was all over Junie, of course. But once it was clear that she was okay— her arm probably broken, but otherwise okay—their mom had turned her fury on their dad.

“You’re a fool, Carl,” she screamed. “I told you not to build that crazy thing. You and your big ideas.”

“I’m sorry,” Dad said quietly. “I made a mistake.”

“I’m tired of your mistakes,” she said. “I’m tired of your big ideas and how the rest of us keep paying for them.”

Seeing them that way, Junie had lifted her head up from the couch. “Don’t fight,” she said. “It wasn’t Daddy’s fault. I just forgot to slow down.”

“Look at her, Carl,” their mother said, and Nate could hear a change in her voice, a tone he wasn’t accustomed to. “You’ve got your four-year-old daughter making excuses for you.”

Their father had closed his eyes.

“Times like this,” she said, her voice ice, “I actually think I hate you.” She had slapped his face then, though as soon as she did, she burst into tears.

Nate’s father put his arms around her.

After, they’d taken Junie to the hospital to set the bone. The whole way into town, nobody spoke, except for one time, when Junie whispered, “It’s okay, Daddy. I love you no matter what.”

In the hallway Nate drew in his breath quietly to keep from being heard.

“I understand from my talks with your farmhand that you and your husband fought a good deal, Mrs. Chance,” the police officer said. “I understand that on some occasions you actually slapped him.” From the sound of Officer Scruggs’s voice, Nate figured he had another chocolate in his mouth.

No answer.

“And what were you doing the morning of the shooting, Mrs. Chance?”

“Washing the breakfast dishes. Putting fresh sheets on the beds. Working on a new piano piece for the spring recital.”

“And would there be any witnesses to attest to that?”

“I was alone all morning. The only people who are around during the day are Carl and Rufus, and they were off working.”