Chapter Nine
They were on the west end of town. That morning Michael had started his run there, parking next to the shelter house in the city park. Before he’d even made it out of the park he’d spotted the first broken pumpkin. Flies that should have met their deaths weeks ago were hovering over the pulpy orange chunks, temporarily granted a stay by the Indian summer weather. The jack-o-lantern was squished flat in the middle of the road outside the caretaker’s place, a widower in his fifties who was raising a grandson. The kid was a squatty little dude, all shaggy red hair and thick glasses on a round face filled with freckles. He would throw the stick and the old dog would look at it but never bring it back. After a couple tosses of the stick, the dog would go find a shady spot and lie
