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Chelsea felt a s.h.i.+ver ripple across her skin. The doctor. The doctor that always hurt her with needles and stuff. The voice was wrong—she should be afraid of Mommy.

“But I don’t like the doctor,” Chelsea said.

“And I don’t care if you like him or not, young lady, you’re going. You and your father both. He’s itching like crazy, and he’s getting these orange welts on his skin.”

“Daddy has dollies inside of him,” Chelsea said. “My special friend said so.”

“Oh, you have a special friend now? How nice, honey. What’s his name?”

Chelsea thought for a second, but she didn’t know his name. She shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Well, you can’t have a special friend and not give him a name,” Mommy said. She gently pushed Chelsea back down in the bed and started tucking the covers around her. “What would you like to call him?”

“How about . . . Chauncey?” Chelsea asked.

Mommy smiled. “Ahhh, Chauncey, like Uncle Donald’s favorite basketball player?”

Chelsea nodded. “Yeah. And his name sounds like mine. Chelsea and Chauncey.”

“Well, that’s a fine name,” Mommy said. She stroked Chelsea’s hair, and that felt really nice. “You get some more sleep, okay?”

“I’m not that tired anymore,” Chelsea said. “I want to get up.”

“Just lie here for a little bit longer, honey. Then you can get up if you want, but stay here and play with your toys, okay? I don’t want you running around. I’ll check on you later, and we’ll see the doctor tomorrow.”

Mommy leaned down and kissed her forehead, then left the room and shut the door behind her. Chelsea sat in the darkness, wondering if Chauncey would talk to her again.

He did.

You must not go to the doctor. You have to stop her .

Chelsea whispered so Mommy wouldn’t hear her. “How can I stop her, Chauncey? Mommy’s in charge. I have to do what she says.”

She ’s not in charge of you.

“She’s not?”

No. You’re in charge of her.

“I am?”

You are.

“Well . . . she’s still lots bigger than me. What if she makes me go to the doctor’s?”

You can stop her tonight. After she goes to sleep.

A picture flashed in Chelsea’s thoughts.

Yes, she could do that to Mommy.

THE SHOOTER

Dew could only take so much hemming and hawing.

His Colt M1911 .45-caliber pistol lay on the shooter’s table. It was loaded, hammer back, safety engaged. Perry Dawsey stood there, in ear protectors and goggles, staring down at the weapon.

“Look, Dew, this is cool and all, but I just don’t want to shoot, okay?”