The well dryin up saved my life. The bang-bang of gunshots didn’t draw me back; nothin unusual ’bout that. I knew somethin was wrong when I saw brother Billy flat on his back in the wheat field starin up at the sky. So much plowin to do, and he was never no slacker. I set the buckets I’d filled at the crik down and crept through the windbreak til I saw the cabin. Papa was sittin out front, but he wasn’t honin his knife no more. ’stead he was slumped, his arms and legs danglin and limp. The back of his head was wet and shaped weird. I knew what that meant. I’d seen the like when Papa and Billy and Jake came back with a deer after huntin.
Papa’s head been shot clean through.
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