The basket was heavy, so he switched it to his other arm and continued at a half-run. He wanted to surprise his mother by coming back lightning-fast, which he always did. But today he wanted it to be even faster, because she was sick and his little brother needed the milk right away. Cars streamed past him, but he couldn’t see the license plates, which he otherwise kept track of, because of the snowflakes. A few cyclists struggled by, bent over their handlebars, with earmuffs and damp, red faces. But the ones coming toward him had the wind at their backs, and he recognized all of them. ‘Hi John!’ they shouted. He nodded enthusiastically. No one could say he was impolite. He was the nicest boy in the whole area when it came to running errands, chopping wood, washing diapers, and whatever else a person has to do to get ahead in the world. The only thing that didn’t go so smoothly was his schoolwork. His mother said, ‘Don’t worry about that; as long as you’re a nice boy.’ His mother was so sweet, and so kind. He was a little scared of his father, who didn’t talk to him very much. His father’s voice was coarse and hard, just like his hands when he slung the rifle down from his shoulder and tossed a dead squirrel on the kitchen counter. They were harmful animals, and he got money from the estate owner for every one he shot. But they looked comical when they dashed up the tree trunks, always running away. John wished he could hold a live squirrel in his hands one day. They wouldn’t have to be scared of him. He had only touched his father’s rifle once, and he still remembered the spanking he got for it. ‘It could go off,’ his mother had explained, ‘and hit you or one of us.’ What if it hit his little brother? Who knows what would happen? Then his mother and father would regret ever ‘taking him in’.