No talking to you now, quiet boy, holding May Elliott’s hand at the back of a ditch standing beside Bobby the horse’s dead-weight, eye and mouth sizzling with flies. No talking to you now, quiet boy, early one morning looking down from a window the horse’s head hanging from the rear of a creeled trailer, rattling its way past the alders and out of the yard. Quiet boy, no talking to you, hunkering down under the boards of the tipped-up...
