Another horse and rider came into view, this one far enough off that Fish could make out the whole body. It was the sheriff. The man walked his horse up to where the tarp had flattened the grass. He studied the ground, looked out across the river, and back at the forest behind him. He had a shiny pistol on his belt. Unlike Fish’s grandpa’s rifle, with its hand-worn bluing and walnut stock, the sheriff’s pistol shone in the sunlight like that revolver had only moments ago, majestic and terrible. Fish felt himself swallow again. He remembered the spotlight last night in the field, the sound of the bullets zipping overhead. Surely it hadn’t been the sheriff who had fired on them. But then again, maybe it was. The sheriff had always been a bit of a mystery to the boys. He’d wave if he passed by in his truck, but there never seemed to be friendliness in it. He was a powerful man, Fish knew. But still, Fish’s grandpa was here. What harm could come if his grandpa was here?
“You figure they crossed?” asked the sheriff. His voice sounded impatient, pained in some way. He adjusted himself in his saddle. Fish’s grandpa pressed his heel gently into his horse’s side. The stallion stepped away into the light. Fish felt the weight of Bread’s hand again.
“Fish,” whispered Bread.
Fish waited. His grandpa had pulled his horse alongside the sheriff’s, looked down at the grass, and then across the river. The two men conferred in hushed tones. Fish couldn’t make out the words.
“If you go out there,” said Bread, “that sheriff is gonna take you away and put you straight in jail, or worse.”
Fish’s body tensed. He wanted so badly for his grandfather to take him up on that horse and ride him back home. He could imagine the warmth of the leather, the squeak of the tack, the smell of his grandpa’s flannel jacket.
“Fish.”
Fish looked at Bread. Bread’s cheeks were red and mottled. He was clearly in distress, but he wasn’t shaking. A sort of confidence shone through.
“I ain’t gonna let my only friend go to jail. I ain’t even gonna let you do it to yourself.”
Fish didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so he stayed silent for a time. They were boys. They didn’t have horses or rifles. They couldn’t face the forest as well as men, but something in Bread’s eyes let him know they had to, that it was all or nothing, that a final decision had to be made right now.
Fish heard water splash and turned to see the two men lead their horses into the shallow rock beds upstream of the rapids, headed for the other shore. Soon they would be gone, as would Fish’s chance to make up his mind. It was confess now or go deep into that forest, come what may. Fish lowered his face down to the cedar needles, let the earth into his lungs. He inhaled and exhaled. He felt as disoriented as he did when he tried to pray the way his mom had taught him. There was too much unknown, and he didn’t know what he was allowed to ask for. He’d been told God was powerful, that he raised people from the dead, which only made Fish wonder why God couldn’t raise his father from the dead, or worse, why he wouldn’t. Fish’s mom said he could ask God for anything, tell him anything, that he could just talk with him. She talked to God in silence, and in song, and in tongues, that quiet and lilting rhythm filling the hallways of his home at night. And when she prayed, God did seem to be there. Fish would feel calmed, protected, known. On the worst sort of nights, the approach of that comfort angered Fish. If God wanted to comfort him, he could give his dad back, a father Fish could touch, and see, and smell. But God didn’t give his dad back, and Fish never asked the adults why not. It was too awful when they pretended to know the answers to such questions.
“Bread?” said Fish.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for what I said. It’s not true. All of this is my fault.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry I cocked you. And no, it ain’t your fault either.”
Fish opened his sore jaw, lifted his head, and looked at the river. The men were out of sight. All Fish could hear was a bird in a tree, the sway of river grass in the breeze. Fish had decided. Bread had too. They were outcasts.
TIFFANY NEARLY BOUNDED WITH JACKS TOWARD THE SUNRISE CAFÉ. They walked on the sunny side of the street, and Tiffany inhaled deeply and looked up at the sky. The morning felt fresh, the air seemed excited. She already called in to work, took four days off. Jacks had a brand-new baby-blue leash from Briar’s Feed and Tack, and Tiffany carried under her free arm a ten-pound sack of the most expensive dog food she could afford, a food and water bowl set, and a chew toy. The chew toy was a zebra-striped cat with crossed eyes and a bright pink tongue. Jacks seemed uninterested when she first waved it under his nose, but Tiffany knew he was just pretending. Jacks tried to seem standoffish—he even tried to bolt from her car, which was narrowly avoided by a lunging grab, which hurt Tiffany’s knee and made her stifle a cuss—but he’d warmed up quickly enough, and Tiffany felt they were going to get along swimmingly.
Tiffany pushed her purple hair behind her ears and skipped up the curb with Jacks in tow. Claypot didn’t have much of a downtown, but it did have one. There was the barbershop with a skull and crossbones in the window—which a few of the Baptists frowned upon—the public works department and firehall, which served as a bingo hall on Saturday nights, and the basement library, where Tiffany often
