When Crickets Cry

by Charles Martin

doctors, are in the single digits, and . . .” Cindy looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice again. “They’re not getting any better.”

At the time I had not read Wittgenstein, but I have read him many times since.

and pulled out a large copper bell that looked as though it had once hung around the

suspect him

He pitched the stub end of the jerky into the lake like a cigarette butt. It flew through the air, spinning end over end like a football that just left a kicker’s foot in a field-goal attempt, and landed in the water where a bream or bass quickly sucked it off the water’s surface. I pointed at his