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TV.
    Behind them Ted collided with the trunk of the oak and went down hard with a grunt, vanishing into the waving foxtails. He
     struggled back up and stumbled onward at a new trajectory.
    William nodded, bunched his lips. ‘We’ll prep the cellar,’ he said.
    The brothers started toward the house, Hanley helping William up the stairs.
    Somehow Ted had navigated his way across the giant stretch of yard. His ragged breaths carried back on the wind. He was sobbing
     something unintelligible, trying to form words.
    Dodge shouldered the duffel and started calmly after him.
    Leaning heavily on his brother, William dragged his lame leg up,
     one step at a time. They reached the porch, and he glanced down at a plastic-wrapped edition of the
Sacramento Bee
. He jerked to a halt.
    Hanley said, ‘What, brother? You all right?’
    William’s cheek twitched to one side, a dagger of teeth showing in the wire of his beard. He pointed down at the newspaper’s
     front-page photograph. ‘The face,’ he said.
    Hanley looked down. Dumbstruck. ‘It’s not possible. It can’t be.’
    William’s eyes hardened. He spit seeds across the black-and-white print. ‘Sure as hell
looks
like it. We’ll find out. We’ll make sure.’
    ‘And then?’
    Down below they heard Dodge catch up to Ted. A crunch of bone and tendon, followed by a thin, wavering scream. A grunt as
     Ted was hoisted onto a shoulder and then the scrabble of arms flailing weakly against Dodge’s back.
    ‘Coming,’ Dodge said.

Chapter 6
    ‘What’s your name? Can he hear? Is he listening? Hello? Hey there. Your name?’
    ‘Michael.’
    ‘Okay, great, kid. Last name? Can you tell me your last name?’
    ‘He’s in shock, Detective.’
    ‘You don’t know your
     last name? How about your dad’s name? Do you know your dad’s name?’
    ‘John.’
    ‘Good, that’s good. And your mom? You remember your mom’s name? Hello? What’s your mom’s name?’
    ‘Momma.’
    ‘Okay. Okay. That’s fine. John and Momma. It’s a start, right?’
    ‘I don’t see how sarcasm’s going to help either of you, Detective. Michael, honey, how old are you?’
    ‘Four. And a quarter.’
    ‘Good, kid, that’s good. We need to figure out how to get you home. Do you understand?’
    ‘I think we should give him some more time, Detective.’
    ‘Time is of the essence, ma’am. Son, do you live nearby? Do you know – Hey, kiddo, over here. Look at me.’
    ‘I really think I should complete my assessment before—’
    ‘What town are you from? Michael? Michael? Do you know the name of the town you live in?’
    ‘The United States of America.’
    ‘Jesus.’

Chapter 7
    The first year passes in bits and pieces, fragments with sharp edges. It is defined by voices. Conversations. Like this one:
    ‘How about a street? C’mon, help us out here. You must remember a street sign,
some
thing.’
    And him pointing to the letter
X
on an alphabet puzzle. ‘Like that.’
    ‘Hey, Joe, you know any street names start with the letter
X
?’
    ‘How ’bout Fuckin’ Xanadu?’
    ‘I think that starts with a
F
.’
    And this one:
    ‘My dad’s coming back.’
    ‘Sure, shithead. My momz, too.
All
our parents is coming back. We gonna have a big fat Thanksgiving turkey dinner and fall asleep ’round the fireplace.’
    There are flashes, too – light and movement, photographs that can be strung together to form herky-jerky story lines. There
     is the Trip to the Hospital, him trembling in the sterile white hall, terrified that he’d been brought here to be put down
     like the neighbor’s Doberman who’d bitten a Sears repairman. (Which neighbor? Why remember a Sears repairman but not his own
     mother’s name?) The doctor comes for him, towering and imperious and breathing Listerine, and leads him to a tiny room. He
     goes passively to his death. They count his teeth, assess his fine motors skills, X-ray his left hand and wrist to check bone
     development. Then they give him a