His survival had been one of those miracles of physics at which doctors shrug. Surgeons judged it too risky to remove the nine-millimeter bullet from its position halfway between skull plate and brain matter, and six months later Gulager was back on the force, no different except for a relentless stutter. The hair around the wound never grew back.

The mustache, though, that was pure style.

I can tell you from experience that one thing worse than being handed to your dad by a cop is being handed to your dad by a cop who is a local hero, a man who has never, as far as anyone can tell, done anything wrong in his entire life, and would certainly never come home late enough to make his family worry.

“You realize, Mr. St-St-Sturges, that this can’t go on muh-muh-muh-much longer.”

Released from Gulager’s grip, I slunk across the kitchen and leaned against the refrigerator. Through the open front door, I could see Tub slumped in the back of the police cruiser, looking despondent behind the fiberglass.

Dad threw me a baleful glance before giving Gulager his most chastened look.

“Sergeant, you have my word. Jim Jr.’s a good boy, but in this matter I’m at a loss, same as you. I have told him, again and again, emphasized to him, stressed to him the importance of getting home on time. Nighttime is dangerous for everyone, but especially boys of Jim’s age—”

Gulager cleared his throat.

“Sir, it’s not J-J-Jim that I’m talking about.”

Dad adjusted his glasses by the Band-Aid and squinted.

Gulager drew a report book from his back pocket and flipped it open.

“May the twenty-sixth, seven-oh-five p.m. We picked him up a bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh-block away—”

“Well, that’s two blocks, really, if you count Oak Street—”

“June the fifth, seven-ten p.m., two huh-huh-hundred feet away—”

“It was raining that night. Anything can happen in the rain—”

“July the ninth. August the tenth. September the th-th-th-th-third.”

“Sergeant. I’d like to stop calling you. I would. But the world is a dangerous place. Surely, you of all people…”

Gulager raised an eyebrow and a portion of his gnarled scar dipped beneath the edge of the shaggy toupee. For a few seconds Dad looked obstinate before his shoulders sagged.

“I know,” he whispered. “I apologize.”

While he wasn’t being looked at, Gulager’s eyes flitted about the room, taking in the steel shutters, the three control panels’ worth of blinking lights, the front porch security camera buzzing above his head. Lastly his eyes landed on me and I read his sympathy. I felt both grateful and offended. I stuck out my chin and Gulager sighed.

“Luh-luh-look, Mr. Sturges.” He crooked a thumb at his cruiser. “I need to drop off the portly one. I’m not going to raise any k-k-k-k-kind of official stink about this. But I want to explain something, and I wuh-wuh-want you to pay attention. There are dangerous things out there. And those dangerous things n-n-n-n-n-need our attention. That’s why you are not to call us again. Not for something like th-th-this. We cannot spare the manpower. Am I muh-muh-making myself perfectly clear?”