![]() ![]() An ex-convict broke into our house and shot our dog, our wonderful dog.īut how could he shoot my parents? How could they be dead? Somehow this is making it hit home, suddenly this seems like it could be real. Dad has his guns, how could he have walked in, wouldn’t Walter have barked?” To hear it from Pike, quiet, dependable Pike, suddenly makes it real. ![]() We were all at the fair, the neighbor heard the shots and called me.” He, uh…he came into the house and shot him. ![]() He’d been out for a few months, I guess he hated dad. He clears his throat, his voice shaking as he says, “There was a guy, from the prison. “Pike? Pike, what’s going on?” I manage to say. I forgot I was even holding it to my ear and it takes me a moment to recognize the voice. I feel outside of my body and inside my body all at once, reality of whatever this is refusing to set in. In the silence I realize I’m not breathing. “They’re dead!” she screams and then breaks off into loud sobs that seem to shake the phone and then there is silence. “Who shot…who shot them? I don’t get it.” I shake my head, unable to understand any of this. “They’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead!” “Pike is talking to the police,” she says. ![]()
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