It turned out Ben Jacobsen had a broken leg and a sprained knee. His high school sports career was in question. Mike Armstrong’s fingers were never found. Matt assumed they were eaten by the coyote, snatched up like chicken McNuggets from the grassy salad of the athletic field. Mike’s tendon needed surgery, something that would take a long time to recover from.

When Matt heard the news he didn’t exactly feel remorseful. They were doing the wrong thing and he stepped in to do the right thing. His father had always told him the right thing was always harder to do.

His father was right.

Matt was more concerned with a trapper the town had hired. The coyote would be euthanized, a chickenshit way of saying “killed” (probably by a .22 to the head). He wondered how they’d know which coyote it was. They’d end up killing a bunch to find the one. The police had come to his house and asked questions, but no charges were filed. Some of the students had testified that Matt was attacked first, and this absolved him of any wrongdoing. This was not the case with Walnut Grove High. An emergency meeting was called between the school and Matt’s parents.

Principal Anderson was a short man who fancied three-piece suits. He was bald and covered it with a toupee. His cheeks looked like that of a chipmunk storing seeds. “You’ve been a pretty good student, Matt. Not grade A but good nonetheless. We’ve looked at all options for you here at Walnut Grove, but we think it is best for you to move on,” Principal Anderson said, licking his thumb and finger to help separate the papers in his file.

Matt sat back in the chair, rubbing his hiking boots together, heel to toe.

“What about a suspension?” Mrs. Kearns pleaded, a tear-damp paper towel balled into her small fist. “Our son was attacked.” She was a conservatively beautiful woman, and her pleading was not lost on Principal Anderson.

But Anderson was not in the mood for convincing. “We’ve been informed that if Matt is not removed there’ll be a joint lawsuit filed against the school on behalf of Ben Anderson and Mike Armstrong.” Principle Anderson said.

Mrs. Kearns furrowed her brow. “Well, who cares? They can’t do that, can they, John?” she asked, looking at his father, her eyes glistening.

Matt’s father nodded. Big John, they called him. But not big enough to do a damn thing in this situation. “They can. But we can file a countersuit. This isn’t over,” his father said.

Principal Anderson sighed. “I’m afraid it is, Mr. Kearns. We’ve exhausted all possible options.”