And now the missing Boy Scout inevitably provoked the flicker of worry I experienced every morning before Robby and Sarah went off to school, especially if the hangover was bad or I’d had too much coffee. This wide-awake nightmare lasted no more than thirty seconds, a rapid montage that nonetheless required a Klonopin: a rampage at the school, “I’m so scared” being whispered over the cell phone, what sounds like firecrackers popping off in the background, the ricocheting bullet that hurls the second-grader to the floor, the random firing in the library, the blood sprayed over an unfinished exam, the red pools of it forming on the linoleum, the desk spattered with viscera, a wounded teacher ushering dazed children out of the cafeteria, the custodian shot in the back, the girl murmuring “I think I’ve been hit” before she faints, the CNN vans arriving, the stuttering sheriff at the emergency press conference, the bulletins flashing on TV screens, the “concerned” anchorman offering updates, the helicopters hovering, the final moments when the gunman places the Magnum in his mouth, the overcrowded hospital emergency rooms and the gymnasiums transformed into makeshift morgues, the yellow crime tape ribboned around an entire playground—and then, in the aftermath: the .22 rifle missing from the stepfather’s cabinet, the journal recounting the boy’s rejection and despair, a boy who took the teasing hard, the boy who had nothing to lose, the Elavil that didn’t take hold or the bipolar disorder not detected, the book on witchcraft found beneath the bed, the X carved into his chest and the attempted suicide the month before, the broken hand from punching a wall, the nights lying in bed counting to a thousand, the pet rabbit found later that afternoon hanged from a hook in a small closet—and, finally, the closing images of the endless coverage: the flag at half-staff, the memorial services, the hundreds of bouquets and candles and toys that filled the steps leading up to the school, the bloody hand of a victim on the cover of Newsweek, the questions asked, the simple shrugs, the civil suits filed, the copycats, the reasons you quit praying. Still, the worst news comes out of your own child’s mouth: “But he was normal, Dad—he was just like me.”

Though I hadn’t realized it, Jayne had walked into the kitchen without saying anything to the sniffling blob wrapped in the sheet hunched over the table. She was standing over the stove waiting for a pot of water to boil (she was making oatmeal for the kids), her back to me. I tried to translate her body language and failed. I zoned out again on the countertop specifically designed for the placement of olive oil bottles. Victor soon shuffled in. The dog stared at me. You bore me, it was thinking. Go ahead—make my day, it was thinking.

“Why does that very rude golden retriever bark all night long?” I asked, glaring back at the dog.

“Maybe because he got freaked out by the sight of your nineteen-year-old students screwing in our garage,” Jayne said immediately, without turning around. “Maybe because Jay McInerney was skinny-dipping in our pool.”

“That doesn’t sound like . . . the Jayster,” I said tentatively.

“Someone had to haul him out after you disappeared,” she said. “With a net.”

“Who’s Annette?” I realized something. “Oh, what net?” I asked flippantly. “We don’t own a net.” Worried pause. “Do we?”

“I looked around but you were already passed out in the guest room.” She said this with the fake nonchalance she had been developing since I moved into the house.

I sighed. “I did not ‘pass out,’ Jayne. I was exhausted.”

“Why, Bret? Why were you so exhausted?” she asked, her voice now clenched.

I sipped my drink. “Well, that dog’s been doing its big barking routine and begging for attention the entire week. You know, honey, this happened to coincide with me starting my novel and so it’s extremely distracting and suspicious.”

“Yes, I know, Victor doesn’t want you to write another book,” Jayne said, turning the stove off and moving toward the sink. “I’m so with you on that one.”

“I never see that dog frolic,” I muttered. “He’s been depressed ever since I moved in and I never see him frolic.”

“Well, when you kicked him the other night—”

“Hey, he was trying to eat a stick of butter,” I exclaimed, sitting up. “He was going after that loaf of cornbread on the counter.”

“Why are we talking about the dog?” she snapped, finally facing me.

After a contained silence I sipped my juice again and cleared my throat.