When I walk into Granger's Feed Store early Mondaymorning, Melvin Granger is up on a ladder shoving bigsacks of dog food around. He pauses when he hears myboots on the wood floor and shoots me a look of pure aggravation. "I'llbe right with you." The tone of his voice implies he'd just as soon I'dgo to hell as be in his store. His old yellow dog, Dusty, is lying on hisfluffy brown bed with a long-suffering gloom about him, as if he's beena target, too.

"Don't let me rush you." I'm as irritated as Melvin is.

He goes back to pushing sacks around with a hint of violence. It'shard to see exactly what he's aiming for. But what he gets is one of thesacks plummeting to the floor and breaking wide open. Pellets of dogfood scatter everywhere. Dusty heaves himself to his feet with a bigsigh, as if to say it's going to be a chore to clean up all that dog food, buthe's going to give it his best shot.

"Goddammit! Dusty, get the hell away from that mess!" Melvinclatters down off the ladder, his feet crunching on the pellets. "Whatdo you want?" he says to me.

I'm not taking any of this personally. The whole town is grumpy.For the first time in ten years the Jarrett Creek High School Pantherslost the homecoming football game to the Bobtail Bobcats last Fridaynight. Coach Eldridge was cursed every which way for keeping thefirst-string quarterback out of the game in the last ten minutes.

"I came in to get a case of cat food. Is that too much trouble?" Inthe grumpy department, I can give as good as I get.

Melvin narrows his eyes at me. "I don't know why anybody wouldkeep a cat."

"Same reason you have that flea-bitten hound around here." Westare down at Dusty and he pauses from gobbling up dog food to sneaka nervous look at us.

"Get away from there!" Melvin hooks two fingers under Dusty'scollar and hauls him over to his bed, then grabs a broom and startscleaning up the mess.

I find Zelda's cat food and plunk a case onto the counter. It takesfive minutes for Melvin to finish cleaning up the dog food. By thenAugust Nachtway and his son have walked in, looking like they'd liketo bite somebody. They nod to me, but don't offer any conversation.

"There's a lot of people don't have a bed as nice as that dog's," I say,while Melvin rings me up.

Dusty thumps his tail, and that's about all the friendliness I get outof the visit.

Back on the highway, I decide to stop by Town Café to listen toJack Harbin rant about the game, which might be soothing in its ownway. Jack was a star quarterback at Jarrett Creek High School andknows the game. His athletic days are over. He joined the army just intime to be swept up into the Gulf War. He was blinded and lost a leg.But he goes to the games every Friday and will talk football all day long,any day. Adversity has left Jack with an unpredictable disposition, buthe never lacks for someone to talk to. Like most small towns in Texas,Jarrett Creek holds football in high regard.

Town Café has all the charm of a cow barn. A big tin Quonsethut, it's pockmarked on the outside, as if it was used for target practicein some past life. Bill Schroeder trucked it in about ten years ago andplopped it onto a lot near the railroad tracks. The place has knotty pinewalls decorated with random signs advertising beer and farm equipment.Christmas lights are strung all over the place, year-round. Butthe food is good.

When I walk into the crowded café, Jack isn't at his usual table.Jack's dad, Bob Harbin, brings him to the café every morning fromnine to eleven. You get used to certain rhythms in a small town. JimmyOrozco standing over his barbeque pit outside his stand by seveno'clock every morning, the eight o'clock freight train lumbering downthe tracks for twenty minutes. And Jack Harbin parked in the café bynine o'clock.

The waitress, Lurleen, whose droopy brown eyes suggest how hardher life is, says she hasn't heard from Jack, and she's worried. She's toobusy with the breakfast crowd to call and find out where he is, so Isay I'll do it. She gives me the number and I step into the café's littleoffice to make the call. As I listen to the phone ring, I note that Lurleenknows the number by heart.

No one picks up at the Harbins'. I tell Lurleen that Bob and Jackare probably on their way over right now—most likely they overslept.She's got her hands full of plates of eggs and bacon that look prettygood to me, but her eyes are so anxious that I tell her I'll go over andlook in on in them right now and see if everything's okay.

It's already a sultry day. Climbing into my truck I pause and lookoff to the west. A few puffy clouds are piling up on the horizon, as ifdeciding whether to collect into something more serious. We could usethe rain and a break from the heat.

As I approach Jack's street, I hear a woman screaming, and arriveupon a dreadful sight. Jack Harbin's wheelchair is on its side, Jackspilled out onto the sidewalk, trying to pull himself upright. BobHarbin lies still on the grass nearby. Their next-door neighbor, BeckyGeisenslaw, is standing in her driveway dressed for work in her blue andwhite Dairy Queen uniform, hands to her cheeks, shrieking. I swerveto the curb and jump out onto the sidewalk so hard that my bad kneealmost buckles.

Sprawled on the sidewalk, Jack looks pitiful, his face gaunt, andhis shoulders poking out of his T-shirt as sharp as chicken wings. Theleft leg of his army fatigue pants is pinned up where it's empty. He triedout an artificial leg, but it never worked out. Some kind of chemical inthe explosion that crippled him got into the wound and it won't healproperly.

I doubt Jack can hear me over Becky's noise, so I put my hand onhis shoulder to get his attention. "Jack, it's Samuel Craddock. I'm goingto see about your daddy."

Jack's dark glasses have fallen onto the sidewalk. I pick them up andplace them in his hands. It's the first time I've ever seen him withoutthem. His brown eyes are clear, and you wouldn't know anything waswrong, except that the skin surrounding his eyes is pinched and riddledwith tiny white scars.

"What's happened to Daddy? Where is he, Mr. Craddock?Daddy!" His voice is harsh with fear.

"Hold on, Jack, just give me a second. Everything's going to beokay." I say that even though a glance at Jack's father tells me I'm probablywrong. He's lying face down in the grass, his head cocked back inan odd way, arms flung out to his sides.

I gesture for Becky to get over here. She shakes her head and hustlesto her car faster than a woman her size ought to be able to move.

Ed Hruska comes huffing up the sidewalk to the rescue. He's a burlyguy. I ask him to help Jack back into his chair while I see about Bob.

I kneel down and turn Bob over. His face is a meaty color of purple,and his mouth is open as if he was gasping for a last breath. I don'tbelieve he's even sixty, but it looks like a heart attack or a stroke felledhim. I feel his carotid artery and there's no pulse, so I start pumping hischest. In the distance I hear a police siren. I hope whoever is on dutyhas a defibrillator in the car. It will take another twenty minutes for anambulance to get here from Bobtail.

Ed manages to wrestle Jack into his chair. "I'm going to take youinside Jack," he says. "It's hot as blazes out here."

"What about Daddy? Why isn't he saying anything?" It's painfulto watch Jack moving his head from side to side as if he...