4HIGH MEADOW FARM, 24 June 1969—He rolled onto his back. Josh adjusted, snuggled against his leg. Bobby moved again. Again Josh adjusted. In his whiskey-induced fog-sleep, Bobby shuddered. His right arm fell over the edge of the mattress. Immediately he jerked it back up, laid his hand across his stomach. Dim light from the bathroom—Grandpa let a seven-watt night-light burn continuously—seeped in through the doorway. At Bobby’s motion, Josh raised his head and shook it, causing his ears to flap, then lay back down, sighed, went to sleep.
Wapinski’s face contorted. He did not move. For hours his mind had been snatching at images, yet the scotch had deadened it, made it lethargic, closed down each sprouting thought before it could take hold. Now the alcohol was mostly metabolized, the toxic
