The county sheriff, Cody Jarrett—a silver-haired man with leathery skin, straight, block teeth, and a long, pointed chin—drinks our coffee and eats our donuts and smokes Pall Mall cigarettes while he takes down my statement in the living room. His eyes are a clouded, milky blue and he writes in a small legal pad, nodding his head absently as I tell and retell the story of what happened. Sheriff Jarrett doesn’t seem particularly surprised about any of it. “Alex Winter’s been a problem ’round this town pretty near since he could walk. I’m just sorry you had to run into him.” His voice is calm and deep, with an accent from maybe Georgia or the Carolinas. He sits on one of the straight-backed chairs, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them again. I sit on the fold-out stepladder and cry a little and the sheriff tells me it’s going to be all right. My dad stands behind me, looking down coolly at me. He keeps chewing on his bottom lip and there’s this thick blue vein standing out in his forehead.
