The children’s puppy was run over at the end of May. Not on the main road, which Pam might have expected, but on the dirt track that formed the western boundary of the farm. How was it possible? No one even drove there. But there he was, splayed out in the lush green weeds of the shoulder, his sweet muzzle soaked with blood. Pam wrapped him in her coat and carried him across the field to the house, his body still soft in her arms.
With the kittens, the vet thought it was some sort of congenital defect. The goldfish were from overfeeding — no surprise there, given the twins’ fascination with the food shaker. And the duckling? Who knew? Pam didn’t need to settle on a definite culprit, but the children did. The children needed an explanation for everything.
