The howl of invisible dogs on the wind, the sound slipping around us.

It's Miss Harvey, he can tell, on account of the red shape. "Makes a ‘pussy print, " Rant says, one finger drawing around the outside of the red stain. "A hundred times more personal than your fingerprint." The stain, he says, looks exactly like a kiss of her down-below parts.

You didn't have to ask how Rant knowed the shape of Miss Harvey's parts. Same as animal tracks in the snow or sand, he could hand-draw you the kiss of a wide-ranging variety of local pussy. Native-born or just passing through. Just seeing how far a rubber was rolled down, Rant could reckon what dick it come off.

A ways off, in the kitchen window of my house, you could see my mom's outline standing at the sink, one elbow raised up and poked out sideways, her hand holding the outline of the telephone pressed to the side of her hair. Maybe watching us. Probably watching us.

Rant plucked another wad of white, splashed with a dark stain. He sniffed it and looked back toward my house.

I asked him, "Who is that?" and nodded at the old blood.

This new pussy print, a flower bigger than Miss Harvey's, a sunflower compared to her little violet.

And Rant opened his bag, saying, "Forget it."

No, really, I said, and reached for it. "Let me smell."

Rant dropped the sunflower-big stain into his burlap bag. He walked a step away from me, walking down the fence line, saying, "I'm pretty sure it's your mom's."

My mom, watching. Her ear still looking for blame over the phone.

Walking out with Rant Casey, time had a habit of getting stopped. That moment, another when time got stuck. That moment forever and always doomed to keep happening in my head. Those stars, the same old hand-me-down stars as folks still wish on now. Tonight's moon, the same exact moon as back then.

Sheriff Bacon Carlyle: Between the time it took Rant Casey running to church, and the time we took getting back to old Esther, the dog packs had already found her. Irene's mama. They left her something awful to come pick up.

Bodie Carlyle: If Rant Casey ever fucked my mom, I didn't never have the balls to ask.

Echo Lawrence (Party Crasher): Before Rant had started kindergarten, but after he'd started sleeping in a regular bed, every day his mother put him down when the little hand of the kitchen clock was on the two, until the little hand was on the three. Yawning or not, Rant had to stay on that bed, up in his attic room, with his pillow propped against the wall. In bed, he hugged a stuffed rabbit he called "Bear."

Picture the moment when your mom or dad first saw you as something other than a pretty, tiny version of them. You as them, but improved. Better educated. Innocent. Then picture when you stopped being their dream.

If the sun was bright, and Rant could hear dogs barking outside, he'd say, "Bear wants to go play…"

When he wasn't tired, Rant would say, "But Bear isn't sleepy…"

Ruby Elliot (Childhood Neighbor): Girls who gone to school with Irene Shelby, we know how close Buster Casey come to not getting born. Irene being no older than thirteen when Chester took up with her, fourteen when the baby come due. To be honest, Irene was none too happy, her being the only gal stretch-marked and breast-feeding in ninth grade.

Edna Perry (Childhood Neighbor): You best swear I didn't tell you this, but before Buster come, Irene used go on how she wanted to paint pictures and carve statues. She didn't never figure what kind. Went as far as Dr. Schmidt, trying to not have that baby. Went to Reverend Fields at Middleton Christian, asking permission to give it up. It didn't help none: Her own ma, Esther Shelby, told her that baby would be born a flesh-and-blood curse of the Devil.

Echo Lawrence: Irene, she'd press her lips on Rant's little forehead. Sitting on the edge of his bed, she'd shake her finger at the stuffed rabbit and say, "We still need a nap." She'd say, "Let's count our stars until we're sleepy." Rant's mother would make him count one…two…all the stickers pasted to the ceiling paint. Four, five, six, and she'd walk out of the room, backward, and close the door.

Ruby Elliot: No lie, but Esther had her own child, Irene, about that same age. Chet Casey was the only voice that helped little Rant come into the world. Chet and Irene got hitched, but she had to quit school. Nowadays, folks see the path Buster Casey took, the plague he started, and it's hard to not figure Irene made the wrong choice.

Echo Lawrence: For that hour alone, looking straight up at the ceiling, his eyes not focused, Rant's finger, it explored the warm, deep world inside his head. Every two o'clock, Rant would lay there and pick his nose. Fishing out gummy strands of goo, he'd roll these between two fingers until the goo turned black. The black goo ball sticking to one finger, then his thumb, never falling, no matter how hard he shook his hand. Every gummy black little ball he'd reach up and paste on the wall above his pillow, the white paint peppered with black lumps. Stuccoed with black goo balls mashed flat, printed with loops and whirls, a thousand copies of Rant's little fingerprint. Souvenirs from the travels inside his head. Always the same portrait of the index finger of Rant's right hand. This spotted rainbow, this arching mural of black dots spreading wider as his little-kid arm grew longer The dried goo up close to his pillow, it was just black specks, dusty keepsakes from when he was really small. A hundred naps later, the dots were big as raisins, spread as high and wide as Rant could reach, flopped on his back, his head propped on the pillow.

The ceiling of his childhood bedroom Irene Casey had pasted with bright star shapes that glowed green when you turned out the light.

The head of Rant's bed was a negative night sky. There, sticky black dots outlined other constellations. Until that day, Rant didn't see the difference.

Edna Perry: If you can keep a secret, the first life that maniac Rant Casey wrecked was Irene's. The first bright future he ever ended was his mama's.

Echo Lawrence: That two o'clock when Rant stopped being an angel, his mother was tucking him in for his nap. Leaning over his pillow, she kissed her little Buddy sweet dreams. His round face sunk into his pillow. Rant's long eyelashes fanned down against his pink cheeks.

If you look at old pictures, Irene Casey is so pretty. Not just young, but pretty the way you look when your face goes smooth, the skin around your eyes and lips relaxed, the pretty you only look when you love the person taking the picture.

Rant's mother is the pretty young mom, the nudge of soft lips on his face beside his ear. She's the breath, the whisper of "Sleep tight" with the smell of cigarettes. The candy smell of her shampoo. The flower smell of her skin cream.

Her breath saying, "You're Mommy's little treasure."

Saying, "You're our little angel."

Most mothers talk the same way, in the moment they're still one person with their child.

"You're Mommy's perfect little man…"

That moment, before the cow eyeballs and the rattlesnake bites and high-school erections, here's the last moment Rant and his mom will ever be that close. That much in love.

That moment—the end of what we wish would last forever.