Page 33 of Property of Whiskey

Wren crawls out from beneath the table.

She’s seven, skinny as a fence rail, with dark hair falling into her eyes and one front tooth still growing in crooked.

“No.”

“Says pray like church.”

“Real church or fake church?” She’s talking about the club.

I press my palms together and show her.

“It’s supposed to say prey like kill ya and eat ya.”

“Then fix it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I lost the brown marker.”

I look around the disaster zone. “Use black.”

“Deer ain’t black.”

“Some probably are.”

“No, they ain’t.”

“Paint one dirty.”

She plants both hands on her hips. “Daddy.”

“What?”

“That’s not science.”

“Science is mostly guessing.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“Then you already know more than me.”

She sighs like I’m exhausting.

Probably am. I shrug off my cut and hang it over the back of a chair before crossing to the couch. Mama snores softly. I tap the cushion near her leg.

She jerks awake. “What?”

“Why are you glittering?”

She rubs her face and somehow makes it worse. “Wren said she needed help.”

Wren points accusingly. “She glued the river backward.”

“A river ain’t got a backward.”

“It does on a map.”