So what do we do? What would you do? Go after her? Call the cops? What we did was finish the dishes—after which, immediately after which, we both developed stomach cramps and diarrhea. Thanks for the pancakes, Grandma, I thought, wondering if it would just go through us (bad enough), or if we were going to die. At the moment, I hoped it was the latter.
By lunch time, which we did not want, we met in the living room, both of us looking sick and pale. “What was it?” I asked.
“We probably don’t want to know,” Tris answered, his hand inside his jeans, resting on his belly.
It was almost peaceful. I say almost because I could hear a dog yapping; a small dog, one of those ankle-biters you hear about. Then it got louder and more violent. Then there was a scream and a gunshot. Then silence agai
