Eighteen:

EIGHTEEN:

Jed Bleeds

“Dad!”

Wes swung towards the staircase and the gun swung with him.

***

“Dad!”

Wes saw his eight-year-old son standing in the shadows of the hall, a line of paper dolls holding hands in a downward smile strung across the archway above. It seemed impossible that such a huge yell could issue from someone so tiny. Wes clutched the carving knife, watched Jed crouching low.

Anger danced with disgrace. These bloody kids had him wrapped around their little fingers. That wouldn’t stand. A lesson had to be taught, and so a lesson they would receive—just as Wes’s own father had taught him. One day his children would understand. Character was carved.

It paid to bleed out the bad if that was what it took.

A father had a right to discipline his children.

Liz sprawled on the ground at his feet. Shirt ripped open at the collar, one of the denim suspenders of her overalls unclipped.

Jed began to cry.

***

“Stop crying,” Wes told his son, huddled at the top of the stairs