After the DNR raid they lived in stunned silence. Boo, Ned, and Jumbo all got away. Jumbo and Ned were fast enough to circle around the three-wheelers and walked back to town through the woods. Boo was too slow but had managed to hide himself in the narrow space of a tortured oak, the inside rotted out. He was squeezed inside overnight, trying not to sneeze, coughing around the punky dust like a deposed king on the run.

Lincoln finished the school year without complaint. Betty isn’t working and spends the days cleaning up after Boo who groans from his hangovers or from the sudden onset of work, sporadic forays into earning money for the next round, sometimes unloading feed trucks, selling illegal walleye, and lately, staggering swollen-headed through poplar stands in search of morels, which he has heard sell for twelve dollars a pound.

No one knew what happened to Simon—whether he had drowned or was lying low. Lincoln had his own fantasies: of staged flight, showdowns with cops, shouted demands and high threat. In the short while Lincoln had known him he decided that Simon was too capable to get caught, too handy to let something as simple as the woods claim him.

When Simon first knocked on the door with a Hefty sack thrown over his shoulder, peering in the jittery windows, Lincoln had hung back, and was as nervous as Betty in Simon’s presence, without knowing why. Boo had been gracious and let him stay in the mildewed trailer out back. Betty had voiced neither assent nor objection. She simply crossed her arms and smoked furiously. Boo settled Simon in and went back to bed. Lincoln lay down on the couch and tried to sleep while Betty sat in the kitchen all night lighting one cigarette off another until she was out and the sun began to burn the frost off the windows on the south side of the house.

“I’m gonna get smokes and eggs,” she announced suddenly, when she thought Boo and Lincoln should be awake. She took the car keys from the finishing nail next to the door and left.

Boo woke up and shuffled in, half-blind with sleep, and started putting coffee together, squinting through his hangover.

“Delivery,” he said, banging the grounds into the garbage can. “Say, Delivery? You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Go tell Simon coffee’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

Lincoln sat up.

“You scared of your uncle?”

“Grandma is.”

Boo shook his head. “Naw. She ain’t scared. She just ain’t used to him yet.”

“Well,” ventured Lincoln, tentatively prodding the bloated body of adult relationships, “she’s mad at him, then. She don’t like him much.”

“Wrong again, Delivery.” Boo took the cigarette from his mouth. “She loves him. She loves him more than she thinks she should.”

Lincoln didn’t understand. “What did he do?”

“He killed a man.” Lincoln didn’t know what to say. Boo continued. “He killed a man, but he didn’t mean to. You scared now?”

“No,” lied Lincoln.