While he was gone, Hook dragged the dog around to the back of the shed, where they would not be seen by anybody driving past on the county road. Bobby returned with the shovel and Hook told him to dig in the plowed ground, which would be easier going than the strip of hardpan the Olsons had had to leave around the perimeter of the building. Hook lit another cigarette and smoked it halfway down while Bobby worked at the hole, rapidly, almost savagely, as if it too had a life that circumstances required their taking. Hook tried to spell him but the boy insisted on doing it all himself and finished the job in less than ten minutes. The hole was about five feet long and two feet down, deep enough so the Olsons’ disks would not turn up what was left of the carcass in the spring.

Together, Hook and Bobby placed the dog into the hole, turning it so its legs were folded under it. Hook tried to take the shovel to fill in the grave, but again Bobby insisted on doing the work himself, only now he felt like talking as he labored, and his words came in spurts, between the heavy bellows of his breathing.

“All he did was what he had to do, right? As a dog?”

“That’s right.”

“And we did what we had to do?”

“Yes.”

The boy shook his head. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“That people who find something to believe in are just lying to themselves. Things like church. Or the flag. Or art. Or anything.”

“That’s kind of pessimistic.”

“You look at life clear—I mean, just the way it is—and there’s no purpose.”

“That we can perceive.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that maybe we can’t see the whole picture. Like him.” Hook indicated the grave.

“I don’t believe that. We’re the highest animals. And the way we see life is the way it is.” Bobby looked at Hook almost accusingly. “And there’s nothing.”

“Including certainty.”

But Bobby was adamant. “There’s nothing,” he said.

He finished filling in the grave in silence, then walked on ahead toward the Jeep.