He showed up to find the lecture hall brimming with estrogen and felt as out of place as an eighteen-year-old farm boy could, having grown up on a small island where "women's liberation" meant Mom could take off her heels and apron after the supper dishes were done and Pop would rub her feet while the three of them sat around the old black-and-white boob tube watching Gunsmoke or Ed Sullivan's "really big shew."

The oven beeped. He'd been standing there ruminating, looking out at the barn as the sky got darker, and completely forgot he was in the middle of making supper. He slid the two roasting pans into the oven and set the timer, then nestled into his armchair in front of the television. Jeopardy! was on. Ancient History was one of the categories. He settled in, ready to clean up.

Something clanged outside. Sounded like one of the trash cans.

"Who is Queen Gorgo of Sparta?" he said, responding to Alex's answer.

One of the contestants ringed in and said Helen of Troy. Ry chuckled derisively.

Outside the noise came again. His gaze fixed on the rifle above the mantle and crucifix.

"Goddamn raccoons," he groaned, easing out of the chair.

A moment later he booted the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch with the rifle in both hands. Barbara hadn't allowed guns in the house. He'd bought the Winchester .30-30 after she passed. It was the perfect tool for keeping deer away from his carrots and foxes out of the henhouse.

A rickety, squalling sound he recognized drew his attention to the barn. The door had just been dragged open, squeaking on the rail.

"That's no raccoon," he muttered, shuffling down the porch steps on stiff legs.

He trundled over crunchy dead grass to the barn, not particularly worried. Likely just local boys playing pranks, stealing eggs or riding his pigs or something equally stupid boys might get into.

He stopped in the doorway. High-pitched squeals and chicken squawks came from the gloom within. The sweet smell of hay and dung prickled his nostrils, a smell he'd always associated with childhood. Pleasant memories for the most part, of working under the hot sun, his mother's lemonade, his father's faint praise.

Someone stood in the middle of the pens. A silhouette cast in the moonlight seeping in through cracks in the barn beams.

He recognized the old woman by her hat.

"Miss Lynch," he said, unable to keep the fear from his voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He didn't lower the rifle.

Mavis stepped into a beam of moonlight streaming down from the rafters. The younger pigs, Ruby's previous broods, stepped back from their pens as she neared. A chicken—he thought it might be Lucille, the pure white one—skittered out of her path.

"The Savage boy and his floozy." Her voice was calm. The brim of her hat kept her face from view. "What did you tell them, Ryland?"

"Oh, I think you have a pretty good idea," he said, and was pleased to note the fear didn't show this time.