The time has come to confess. I know that I am putting myself in danger of prosecution, but I have faced death enough times to know that the next time could easily be my last, and so have decided to come clean now rather than let this mystery remain unsolved forever.
Yet we were shocked and frightened when our father burst into our bedroom armed with his trusty .410 gauge and shot at the damn thing right through the window screen. Later, when we thought about it, we laughed, and decided it was pretty funny. He missed–that time.
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That day in Indiana he was angry again.
“Did they find any bodies?” my mother asked.
The previous weekend, the six of us had been walking east on the sand road, all heavily armed. It was another hot Indiana day, and we were actually getting along well, ready to do something that took some cooperation and organization to pull off.
My father wore an expression I’d never seen before, one I couldn’t understand. He stared at me with his dark brown eyes, and I could see the strange flecks of mossy green in them. Suddenly, his big fist pounded on the table, making the soda pop bottles jump.
