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When Reb nudged him awake, the look on his brother’s face suggested that Michael had been out for quite some time. He could fantasize all he wanted, but Rebel was still at his elbow and Momma was still waiting back at the house.
    A woman emerged from the cottage. Michael reached for the binoculars and peered through them at her. She was pretty, but definitely not Momma’s type. Momma liked her girls young. The woman who was crossing the front yard to the bistro table appeared to be in her early fifties. If she was any younger, time hadn’t treated her well. She had tied her hair back in a tight ponytail, but the color looked fake—a reddish-gold straight out of the box. Her faded green T-shirt had a picture of a cartoon owl in the center, the slogan GIVE A HOOT, DON’T ­POLLUTE stamped in soft white letters. It looked strange on her, too junior, possibly stolen out of a daughter’s closet. Her shorts were dumpy and unflattering, as though she had lost weight but hadn’t bought any new clothes to celebrate. Her feet were shoved into a pair of brown leather sandals. Her knees drooped like frowning twins.
    Michael shook his head, then gave Rebel a sidelong glance. “She’s old.”
    â€œShe ain’t that old.”
    â€œToo old for Momma,” Michael assured him, squinting at the woman. She had a tattered paperback novel in one hand and a can of TaB in the other. Taking a seat at the table beneath the pine tree, she took a sip, then flipped to where a bookmark jutted out from between the pages of what he assumed was some girlie romance. Misty Dawn was crazy for that stuff. She had a whole collection of Harlequin books with racy covers—women with giant breasts clinging to half-naked men. Michael had seen girls with big breasts before, but they hadn’t ever struck him as all that attractive. Fear did strange things to a person’s face.
    Rebel snatched the binoculars from Michael’s hands.
    â€œLike you’re the expert.” He scoffed. “What do you know about what Claudine wants, anyway?”
    Michael didn’t know much about anything, but he knew the type of girls they’d hauled back to the house over the years fit a certain profile. None of them had been as old as the lady they were looking at now.
    â€œYou sure this is the right house?” The question tumbled from Michael’s lips before he could cut himself off.
    Reb lowered the binoculars and slowly turned his head. Their eyes met momentarily before Michael looked away.
    â€œYou got any more stupid questions,” Reb asked, “or you wanna shut up?”
    â€œSorry,” Michael muttered, ducking his head into his shoulders.
    Reb continued to watch the woman for a while, as if admiring her just as much as Michael had the house. Eventually, his brother said, “She’s perfect,” beneath his breath, and the longing in his voice gave Michael the creeps.
    â€œPerfect for what?” Michael asked, staring down at the dead leaves beneath him. He half-expected Rebel to smack him upside the head for talking out of turn. But rather than hitting him, Reb slid back from the crest of the hill, sat up, and dusted himself off. He gave Michael a weird sort of smile and shrugged.

5
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    T HE FIRST DAY they had him, all Michael did was cry.
    They didn’t even know his name until Lauralynn took him outside to look at the rabbits and somehow got him to talk.
    â€œHis name is Merrell,” she said. “But Raybee . . . he says he’s only four.”
    â€œWhat difference does that make?” Ray asked, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. He had expected Lauralynn to be over the moon when he presented her with his gift, but all she had done was gape like an openmouthed catfish.
    â€œHe’s scared,” she continued. “We gotta take him back.”
    â€œTake him back?” Momma had stepped onto the back porch mid-­conversation.