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way. Sister pulled the car up and let the window down.
    “You can park right here.” Meemaw pointed to a space between two trailers. “This is Kerrigan’s place.”
    “What about the dogs?” I asked.
    “There’s sticks all around. If they get too close, just act like you’re gonna hit them. I don’t think they’ll bother you, though.” She pointed to her right. “This is my trailer. Won’t take but a second for you to get over here, but I’ll wait right here for you if you’re scared of the dogs.” She turned toward the trailer and screamed, “Sunshine! We’ve got company.”
    The dogs began to howl.
    “Do you see any sticks?” Sister whispered.
    “Lots of them.”
    “Lead the way, Meemaw,” she said. And then to me, “Marco!”
    “Polo!” I shouted as we dived from the car and scrambled up the trailer steps behind Meemaw.
    The door slammed behind us and we were safe. We looked at each other, grinning. And that was how we all ended up on the floor. Meemaw stopped dead still and screamed and Sister and I walked right into her and knocked her down.
    Later on, the sheriff kept asking Mary Alice and me to tell him exactly what things were like as we walked into the trailer, but all either of us could remember was confusion. It was like one of those pileups you see in football. Take one of the players out and see how much he remembers about the field at that particular time.
    Neither Sister nor I knew there were four of us on the floor for a couple of minutes. I thought Meemaw was screaming because Sister had fallen on her, a reasonable conclusion. I don’t know what Sister thought, but she figured out before I did when Meemaw’s scream changed to “Call 911! Call 911!” She was also the one who helped Meemaw to a sitting position and discovered a man at the bottom of the pile. A man with what appeared to be a very large knife sticking out of his chest. A very dead man.
    “Call 911, Mouse,” Sister said in a calm voice. Then she stretched out on the floor and closed her eyes.
    “Sunny!” Meemaw screamed. “Sunshine!”
    “Where’s the phone?” I asked.
    “Kitchen counter. Sunshine! Where are you?”
    “Dead man,” I managed to say to the woman who answered the emergency call.
    “Your name? Address?”
    “I’m Patricia Anne Hollowell, and oh, God. I don’t know where I am.” I turned around to Meemaw. “Where are we?”
    “Primrose Lane. Turkett Compound.”
    I related the information to the operator who then wanted to know if we needed an ambulance.
    “Send everything you’ve got. It’s a dead man with a knife in him.”
    “And the name of the deceased?”
    “Meemaw, who’s the man?”
    “I don’t know who the hell he is. But he’s got my goddamn good hog-butchering knife sticking out of him.”
    “She doesn’t know who he is, but he’s got her goddamn good hog-butchering knife sticking out of him.”
    “I’ll have someone there in a few minutes,” the 911 operator said. “Just hang on, Mrs. Hollowell.”
    “I will, thank you. And you probably ought to tell the rescue people that they’ll need sticks for the dogs. I think they’re pit bulls.”
    “Yes ma’am. Sticks for the dogs.”
    I turned around and surveyed the scene. Sister and the man were both still lying on the floor, but she had moved over against the sofa. Meemaw was sitting next to her.
    “My good hog-butchering knife,” Meemaw said again. “And who the hell is he, and where is Sunny? Here’s her soup. I didn’t even spill any.”
    “I’ll put it in the refrigerator,” I said. And I walked around the little man in the dark suit with the hog-butchering knife sticking out of his chest, and got the Styrofoam container of soup from Meemaw.
    “Sunny!” she screamed. “I know you’re here. Answer me, girl, right this minute or I’ll beat your butt.”
    Sister opened her eyes for a second and then closed them again.

Four
    M ary Alice and I have always reacted to traumatic situations