He saw the retarded girl in the doorway of the chicken coop behind his father.

The old man was unloading pallets of feed, lifting them off the pickup and piling them on the ground next to the sagging slatted building. She would hide whenever he faced in her direction, retreating into the coop, but the second he turned his back on her, she would jump into the doorway and pull up her shift, exposing herself and thrusting her thin dirty hips out suggestively.

It was the first time Mark had seen her since he’d come back, and he felt the same rush of cold fear he’d experienced before. This was outside, in the sunlight and open air, with his father hard at work between them, but he felt the same way he had years ago, alone in the dark hallway.

Scared.

His father put down a pallet, reached into his back pocket, and grabbed a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He noticed Mark standing there and motioned him over. “I was wondering when you were going to wake up. Why don’t you give me a hand here. My back’s killing me.”

Mark nodded, moved forward. His attention was still on the girl in the doorway.

Your father does it.

He looked away from her, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, he and his father each taking one end of the remaining pallets and stacking them on the ground, but he kept seeing her out of the corner of his eye, kept seeing her dirty shift flip up, and he wondered if the old man saw it too and was just pretending not to.

He makes it hurt.

Finally, they finished. His father wiped the sweat from his forehead once again. “I’m going into town to pick up another load and get your mother. Don’t wander too far. I’m going to need your help when I get back.”

Mark nodded as his father opened the driver’s door of the pickup and climbed in. The engine rattled to life, and Mark stood there as the truck bounced up the slight slope to the drive.

He turned back toward the chicken coop.

The girl was still in the doorway, but now she was unmoving, staring at him. “Mark,” she said, and he remembered that voice, remembered the way she’d said his name, and a chill surfed down his spine.

She moved slowly forward, away from the coop, toward him, and he took an involuntary step backward.

She stopped. And then she was on the dirt, on her hands and knees, shift flipped up, and just as before, she looked slyly over her shoulder. “I still like it best up the ass.”