After Tack drove off, Celli remained outside. In his store apron, his arms akimbo, he greeted folks who passed him as if he was the king of Main. Clear as anything, Lew could see Mr. Celli flinging his brother like a dead critter into the river. Now, here, not two weeks later, he was laughing, shaking hands, as if Roh had never lived. Lew stepped out a little way from the garbage can he had been hiding behind and Celli saw him. His smile vanished and he drew back into the shadow of his awning and then into the store. Lew had seen it, the horror in Celli’s face, his guilt. Again, that terrible force seemed to twist down on everything in the world, this time wrenching rage out of his heart. He ran home and got the lockbox key from over the curtain rail. After he had filled his pockets with shells, he took his pop’s shotgun, which was almost as big as he was, and ran back into town. In that same alley, he loaded the shotgun. When Main was clear, he ran across and into the store, his heart pounding. Celli wasn’t at the counter. Lew walked up the center aisle and saw him on his knees, stocking shelves. The second he looked up, Celli fell backward, hollering something in Italian. Lew aimed the gun over at some tins of bootblacking and fired. The kick knocked him off his feet. Celli screamed, covered his head, and crawled like a lizard down the aisle. Frank appeared from the back.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

On his feet again, Lew fired into the ceiling, scattering plaster everywhere. Celli scrambled up behind Frank and ran out of the store.

Frank marched right down to him. He took the shotgun out of his hand, throwing it to the floor, then flung Lew over his shoulder. Annie ran in, her pop screaming after her.

“Call Siggy,” Frank shouted.

She didn’t move, staring at Lew, who was dangling helplessly over her brother’s shoulder.

“Now, Annie!”

She ran into the back.

Lew felt he had no power in his limbs at all. Frank sat at the edge of the sidewalk, holding Lew firmly in his lap. He told everyone who was coming to the store that it was temporarily closed due to a burst pipe. Before they walked on, a few people put their hands on Lew’s head or shoulder, telling him they were sorry for what happened to his brother.

Lewis entered the imposing office of Dr. Walthrop, who was in charge of the Cedar Hills Sanatorium for Pediatric Mental Illness. He had arrived just this morning from juvenile detention. Three weeks had passed since he shot up Sal’s store.

The doctor sat writing in a large notebook at his desk. He had broad shoulders that made his head seem small, and his eyes were very close-set beneath wild graying hair that put Lew in mind of an animal pelt.