His sister--Lisa--is standing on the bank of the creek, watching the trickles of brown water slide sluggishly through the bulrush like snakes. The looming cathedral ceiling of the the sky presses down on them. Crickets fill the air with an unending reee. Three men are coming towards them down the road, rifles slung over their shoulders. One of them points at them. They run; Lisa’s soft tiny hand is enveloped in his, their legs whipping through the grass, pulling her, then a shot, and she sags and is heavy. He keeps running. Lisa hasn’t cried out or screamed and when he looks the top of her head isn’t there anymore, nor those curious blue eyes, nor her tiny impish nose; her little body--dressed like a doll--flings wildly through the swampy foliage behind him as he drags her.
Several days later he is lying awake in bed, starring at the webwork of cracks in the ceiling, when his father comes into the room. His father makes him do things, and he does them the best he can--not wanting to upset his father, knowing he was supposed to be watching Lisa, that her death was all his fault--chained to the bed, floating out of himself. Afterwards, sitting in the dark of the middle of the night, his father whispers: “I wish your sister was here.”