I heard the shot before I smelled the corn dust, a single crack that split our Saturday wide open and left the kitchen clock ticking too loud over the hiss of the deep fryer. Vern’s field lay quiet beyond our pasture fence, the one Dale had strung with his own torn palms, and I’d always believed that rusted wire meant safe. By the time I reached the northwest corner, batter crusted on my fingers, Domino lay in the grass with his white-patched eye open, steam lifting off his flank into the cool air. Vern stood in his rows with a rifle, jaw clenched, saying the steer was on his side, in his corn, in his right, in his cor… Continues…
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