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soles.
    â€œThat bird is possessed by the devil, Del. Really. Seriously.”
    I keep digging.
    Maybe Marvin counts as a rescue, since he started being my best friend in fifth grade after his dad ditched him and he and his mom had no place to live. They stayed with us for a while, but now they have their own place over on Backdrop Road, which isn’t out in the sticks like our house. We kind of have to live in the sticks, since my parents can’t stop rescuing things.
    I wonder if Marvin thinks I’m a rescue. That would fit, probably for lots of reasons. He didn’t ditch me like everybody else did when all the shit came down three years ago. There wasn’t any big fight or huge divorce from my old friends or anything. We were all just about to start high school, so we were going in lots of directions—me trying out for baseball, and Raulston, Tom, and Randall looking at freshman football, and Jason and Dutch had joined ROTC. Jenna and Lisa were going out for softball, and Cory wanted to sing in the chorus. She really did have a beautiful voice.
    She still has a beautiful voice, I guess, but I don’t know. She doesn’t live here anymore. None of them do. Jason, Tom, and Randall went to Chicago. Their families figured they’d stick out less in a bigger city. Raulston’s family took him back to California. Jenna and Lisa and Dutch all went west, too, but not as far—Arizona and Colorado and New Mexico. Some big towns, some little towns. Anywhere but Duke’s Ridge and the prying, interfering eyes of District Attorney William Kaison.
    My folks figured we’d be better off here, where people knew me and knew our family, since my charges were more serious than everybody else’s. Plus, they would have had to get permission from the court for us to move, and go through a lot of hassle, and we’ve had enough hassle for a while.
    When it was all said and done, Marvin wasn’t charged, but other than him, Cory was the only one Kaison didn’t tear to pieces. I’m glad for that at least. I’m not sure where she went, and I’m not sure if I’m allowed to ask, but I’d really like to know how she’s doing. She’s e-mailed me a few times to ask about how I’m getting along, always from anonymous untraceable addresses, but I delete the e-mails. I’m too chickenshit to answer her. Digging graves for a job is one thing. Digging graves for myself to fall into in real life—thanks, that’s okay. Been there, done that, put my face in the dictionary next to the definition. Kaison’s out of office now, but who the hell knows about the woman who replaced him? She could be just as bad, or maybe even worse. I’m not taking any chances.
    About an hour later, Marvin’s still churning burrito farts, but we’re through with the first grave. He pitches his shovel out and hoists himself back to level ground. “I still think it’s weird we don’t have to dig six feet down.”
    â€œEighteen inches.” I get out behind him and rub dirt off my lips. “Weird, how some stuff doesn’t have to go as deep as you think, right? But the plague was a long time ago, and nobody much robs graves anymore. Eighteen inches of dirt on top of what you’re burying, that’s the law here, but Harper says most states don’t even have laws about it anymore. He thinks four feet is plenty, as long as the casket’s normal size—and in the winter, four feet will be hard enough.”
    Marvin stretches out the kinks from digging, ignores Fred’s rendition of bombs whistling down and exploding on impact, and asks, “What’s the difference between a casket and a coffin?”
    â€œNo idea.” I put down my shovel and stretch, too. Too bad Marvin ate all those burritos. It’s probably getting close to noon and I’m hungry now, but I’m betting Harper ate the rest of his peanut butter and bread