On the porch, in the rocker, with the shotgun across my knees, I watch the granddaughter play in the front yard.

Like her mother, but kind, and energetic. She ran from white picket fence to white picket fence, “Ready, set, Go...” “Ready, set, Go...”

I don’t trust them, the daughter says I should, but I just can’t, not when the granddaughter played in the front yard, so, with a squint against the sun, I rocked and watched.

And one appeared. At the end of our road. Pause, hitch, shuffle, it danced, moved, down the middle, as if it listened to music none of us could hear.

I didn’t call the granddaughter. Let her play. She didn’t need to fear. I could hold the fear for both of us.