“Okay, motherfucker,” I say, looking for something like a rake to fend him off. “Stay away.” Fuck. This is what I get for trying to help. My dying thoughts will be a deep-seated understanding that I cannot do what Jeb or Embry do. I just cannot. There’s no rake close by. No shovel. No sticks. Just a bunch of dogs and hay—er, straw—bales. Apples. I need apples. Embry stowed a bag of them in the barn once he realized that they served to tame the murder goat, so I back slowly away from Sherbert, never taking my eyes off him. “Stay there,” I say to him, but he again disregards me. Three dogs
...more
