Alvin added Nora’s shoe to his stash in the cellar of the burned-out house and unwrapped Hoffmeyer’s Mauser. He felt so strange: both exhilarated and exhausted, as if he were hollow but a swarm of hornets was inside him, trying to get out. It was like happiness and misery all wrapped up together. He had snuck up to peek at Nora and Raj swapping clothes, Raj acting the fool, Nora playfully hitting him. Then he had hurried back to Annie and Lew, and it was as if he had run into something that had impaled him, seeing them kiss like that. All at once he felt as if he weren’t there—or as if what was there was so disgusting he wanted to leave it behind: a squealing, stupid, ugly kid.

He loaded the Mauser and took it with him back into the woods. He had to be very careful not to be seen with it. Luckily, on the same day he had taken Hoffmeyer’s stuff, Sheriff Judd had rousted two Negroes out of an abandoned car at the floodplain. They had become the prime suspects and were assumed long gone. He aimed the rifle at a few things: cow, car, cardinal, crow. His old .22 could hardly kill a sparrow; this Mauser had killed real men. After a while he found himself at Miss Winters’s house. She was kneeling in her kitchen garden, covering the faces of her cauliflowers. Very quietly he got into position and aimed the rifle at her. Clicking the safety off, he touched his finger to the trigger. Astonishing, how easy. The crack of the Mauser and she would crumple like a badly pitched tent, face first into the dirt. All the consequences then, rippling out: Pisgah filled with horror, fear, grief. He would have his secret, then. Though he would never tell anyone, people would feel it in him. They would know he wasn’t a child. Grazing the edge of the trigger again, he saw her push a strand of loose hair behind her ear and felt her life in his arms, in the arms that cradled the gun. A woman’s life. In his arms. He could survive in the woods, hide in the margins. No one would ever see him. He would hold them in his arms. Heart-shot, they would fall into his arms. His hands were trembling now, his whole body, and he had to put the rifle down as that ecstatic unhappiness swarmed up inside him again. After hiding the rifle, he snuck to the front of Ruth’s house and slipped in. If she caught him, he could say he was looking for Raj. But it was her room he went to. He wanted something of hers. He still felt a little sweaty and shaky, as if she were lying dead outside. Looking around her closet, he noticed that part of the cedar-plank ceiling had been replaced by a piece of pine about the size of the top of a school desk. Shutting the closet door behind him, he climbed the sturdy shelves and gently pushed on this area, which lifted. The piece of pine had been used to fill in a hole—perhaps a rotted-out section of the ceiling or an old flue. Excited and scared, he pulled himself up into the attic. After replacing the piece of pine, he took off his shoes. The attic was packed. Perfect. From the dormer window he could see Ruth still in the garden. He imagined a life of stealing into attics, barns, and cellars, taking what food and clothes he needed. He looked around. He couldn’t stay long, but he was sure he would find something here worth having.