“Yes, sir. I used to trade deer hide for old cotton reels with some of the river traders back home and although I wouldn’t really want to showcase a pair of white socks with black stitching if I can help it, I made it work. And besides, Cooper’s usually covered in so much blood, you wouldn’t even know his socks were supposed to be white in the first place.”

Peter looked down at his lap, suddenly aware just how reassuring it was to refer to Cooper in the present tense.

The sheriff wiped foam from his moustache and turned a page.

“Cooper’s reading’s not so good,” said Peter. “But he can walk down the length of a canoe on a rapid without even rocking it and I could never do that. Never! Does reading matter so much?”

“It will do, yes.”

“Why?”

“The world we’re walking back into won’t have much need for balancing on canoes, now, son, will it?”

“I guess not. But he can also pop a tin can with a single shot from fifty yards away.”

“I see.”

“And wrangle a whole herd of the Dead away from the lake. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned that first.”

“And now?”

Peter shook his head. “Now?”

“Yeah,” said the sheriff turning another page. “What does he do now he’s Returned?”

“He does the same.”

“But how does he behave?”

“Behave?”

“Yes. Is there anything else?”

Peter glanced at the blinds, irritated that he could no longer see through them to distract him from what he could still see in the ravine that night, and heard the cool tone of Cooper’s voice telling Becky how easy it was for them to control the Dead.

The sheriff cleared his throat. “Peter.”

Peter became aware of a clock ticking in the office. He supposed it must’ve been there this whole time, but he hadn’t noticed it before now.

“Peter, does Cooper do anything else now he’s Returned?”

The ticking got louder.

“Peter.”

“Yes. He loves me.”

The sheriff’s attention lifted from the page. “Son, look at me.”

Peter scanned the office for the clock. Where was that damned thing?

“Son.”

“Where’s Cooper? Where is he?”

“In interview room seven down the other end of the corridor with Tokala, but he’s fine, Peter.”

“And—”

“And your dad’s just outside waitin’ for you.”

Peter held the sheriff’s eye longer than was comfortable just to see if he’d look away. But he didn’t. His eyes were warm with reassurance and there was a kindness in his voice that didn’t leave just because his son was no longer in the room with them. Peter noticed the back of a picture frame beside the sheriff’s computer and quickly changed the subject.

“Is that your family?”