THE HOSPITAL SAID MY NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER WAS GONE — AND MY HUSBAND BE.GGED THEM NOT TO LET ME SEE HER. TWO WEEKS AFTER THE FU.NERAL, OUR LOYAL DOG DR.OPPED HER YELLOW CARDIGAN AT MY FEET. IT WASN’T TORN. IT SMELLED LIKE HER SHAMPOO. AND THE SLEEVES WERE STILL WET WITH PURPLE PAINT.

Wet.

The paint was still wet.

Scout barked once.

Sharp.

He grabbed the cardigan out of my hands.

He bolted down the porch steps.

He ran to the back fence.

Then he stopped.

And he looked back at me.

Waiting.

“Jason!”

I screamed it toward the hallway.

“Jason!”

Nothing.

His crutches were propped against the arm of the couch.

The guest room door was closed.

Sleeping, I thought.

The pills make him sleep.

No coat.

No shoes.

I ran.

Out the back gate.

Across the wet grass behind the Hendersons’ place.

Down the old tractor path.

Into the old Pruitt orchard.

Old Mrs. Pruitt had moved into a nursing home two winters ago.

Nobody had picked those apples since.

The trees were black and twisted.

Rotten fruit squished under my bare feet.

Scout kept running.

He’d stop.

Look back.

Make sure I was still coming.

Then run again.

My lungs burned.