He sat beneath the small overhang, watching the light rain gather like seeds of glass on the pine boughs. It was the first cool day of September, and a breeze was steady from the southeast. He shivered just a bit and was glad for the jacket he’d donned before coming outside. The house down the hill and across the road was tawdry in the rain, old feed sacks and trash scattered in soggy piles on the steps and across the high grass in the front yard. Though few of his faculties still functioned well, his eyesight was good and he was watching the dog. It belonged to the sullen man…

The man was on his stomach in the grass, legs spread, up on his elbows like a sniper taking the prone position before firing. But he was not shooting. He had tripped over a hidden root and dived straight down onto the green carpet of blades and leaves. His right knee hurt where he’d struck the ground, and his back ached from lying on his belly, a position to which he hadn’t been accustomed for some years. Bass Fletcher (whose Christian name, Alabaster, had been shortened by his father within the first seven minutes of the child’s earthly life) was not known as a particularly studious man. He was, however,…