“I’ve got no money.”

“I’ll give you some. You can bring the bread back here to me.”

“I do hurt all over. I can’t walk that far.”

The kid’s shoulders have a mutinous set. Everything in her is dug in against the thought of waving her family’s dirty laundry in Noreen’s face. “Kid,” Cal says. “You want them coming back to make sure?”

After a second Trey pushes the mirror away. “Right,” she says. “OK. Just, can I go tomorrow?”

The downswirl of fatigue dragging at her voice makes Cal feel like a heel. Just because the kid’s still got fight in her, he fooled himself into believing she was more whole than she could possibly be right now. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. Tomorrow’ll work fine. Today you just rest up.”

Trey says, “Can I stay here?”

“Sure,” Cal says. He’s been turning over ways to suggest the same thing himself. Donie would have to be a dumbass of epic proportions to go whining to Austin about their conversation, but Cal learned a long time ago never to underestimate the spectacular natural wonder that is people’s stupidity. And on the off chance that Austin does have someone watching Donie, and they spotted Cal, they know every word of that conversation by now. He thinks of the Austin variants he’s known, and of the things they’ll do to Trey if they feel the need to come back. Until he has the situation under some kind of control, the kid is staying put.

Trey yawns, suddenly and hugely, not bothering to cover her mouth. “ ’M wrecked,” she says, puzzled.

“That’s ’cause you’re hurt,” Cal explains. “Your body’s using a ton of energy on healing. Just gimme two minutes, and we’ll get you back to bed.”

He fetches his hammer and tacks, a chair and a drop sheet, and takes them over to the bedroom window. Trey follows him and collapses on the bed like someone cut her strings.

“I got beat up one time when I was about your age,” Cal says. He climbs on the chair and starts tacking up the sheet over the window.

“Was it your mam that done it?”

“Nope,” Cal says. “My mama had the softest heart in town. She couldn’t swat a mosquito.”

“Your dad?”

“Nah. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body either. My dad, when he showed up, he’d bring me little toy cars and candy, flowers for my mama, show me card tricks, stick around a couple of weeks and then take off again. No, this was a couple of guys from school. I don’t even remember what it was about. They got me pretty good, though. Two cracked ribs, and my face looked like a rotten pumpkin.”

“Worse’n mine?”

“About the same. More bruises, less blood. What I remember most, though, is how tired I was afterwards. For most of a week, all’s I could do was lie on the couch and watch TV, and eat whatever my gramma brought me. Getting hurt tires you right out.”

Trey works this over in her head. “Didja get them back?” she asks. “The lads that bet you up?”

“Yep,” Cal says. “It took a while, ’cause I had to wait till I grew as big as them, but I got there in the end.” He steps off the chair and gives the drop sheet a tug. It stays in place. “There,” he says. “Now you won’t have to worry about hiding in the bathroom if anyone comes round. You just get all the rest you need.”

The kid lets out another yawn, knuckling her good eye, and starts winding herself up in the bedclothes. “Sleep tight,” Cal says, and closes the door behind him.

She sleeps for four hours. Cal strips wallpaper in the second bedroom, at a slow, steady rhythm, so as not to make any sudden noises. Dust motes whirl and flare in the sunlight slanting through the windowpane. Out among the harvested fields, sheep call back and forth, and a flock of tardy geese sets up a faraway clamor. No one comes looking for anyone.

NINETEEN

Hunger finally rouses Trey, and Cal makes them both peanut butter sandwiches and then locks Trey in again so he can head into town. Even if Donie called Austin straightaway, this is hardly going to be high enough on Austin’s priority list to make him leap into action, but Cal still wants to be back home by dark. As he backs out of his driveway, the house, low and stolid amid his overgrown fields and the brown smudge of mountains on the horizon, looks very far away from anything else.

On the drive, he phones Lena. “Hey,” he says. “How’re the dogs doing?”

“Grand. Nellie destroyed one of my shoes to punish me, but it was an old one.” In the background, men’s voices are calling back and forth. She’s at work. “How’s Trey?”

“OK. Still kinda shaky, but better. How ’bout you? Did the aches and pains wear off yet?”

“You mean,” Lena says, “have I blocked it out enough that I’d be on for doing it all over again.”

“Well,” Cal says, “that too. The kid wants to stay one more night at my place. Would you help me out again? If I get that mattress?”

After a moment Lena makes a sound that could be laughter or exasperation, or both. “You should’ve just taken the pup,” she says. “It would’ve been less hassle.”

“It’s just one more night.” Cal is pretty sure this is true. This isn’t something he can let lie for any length of time. “You could bring Nellie, if you want. Keep the rest of your shoes out of danger.” He doesn’t mention the part where a beagle’s alert ears might come in handy, but he’s pretty sure Lena catches it anyway.

The men’s voices get smaller; Lena is moving away from them. She says, “One more night. If you get that air mattress.”

“Heading there now,” Cal says. “Thank you. If ever you need a favor, you know where to come.”

“Next time one of the pups gets the runs all over the floor, I’m ringing you.”

“I’ll be there. Can I invite you to join us for dinner?”

“No, I’ll make my own and call over to you after. Around eight, say. Can the two of ye protect yourselves till then?”

“We’ll do our best,” Cal says. “While I’m pushing my luck, could you do me one more favor? Can you call Sheila Reddy and tell her Trey’s OK?”

There’s a silence.

“She oughta know,” Cal says. He’s not feeling particularly warm towards Sheila, but it wouldn’t be right to leave her wondering if Trey is helpless or dying somewhere on the mountainside. “Just tell her the kid’s safe, is all.”

“Ah, yeah, right. And when she asks where Trey is, I just say I’ve no clue, is it? Or I say, ‘Ha ha, not telling,’ and hang up on her?”