Tiller screamed again, but this time the effort was hoarse and wracked with pain.

Michael played the flashlight beam over the hill in front of him. Scrub brush and cacti clung to the steep hillside. His right foot shot out from under him. He fell to one knee, but pushed himself forward again.

The hill was steeper on the other side. Michael's tennis shoes tore through the muddy crust and he slid down, brushing up against a hedgehog cactus that left fiery nettles in his forearm. He ignored the pain and played the flashlight beam over Tiller on the ground before him.

Tiller huddled on his knees in the mud. Rainwater ran in rivulets around him, threading through his hands pressed into the mud. He kept his head down and shuddered.

"Tiller," Michael called, playing the light over the ground and the area around them. "Hey, Tiller."

Tiller didn't respond except to bury his face in the mud between his hands.

"What's wrong?" Kurt Bulmer called from the top of the rise Michael had slid down.

Michael glanced back up the hill and spotted Bulmer, Junior, Flynn, and Perry standing there. The lightning

cored through the sky above their heads, and thunder blasted away Michael's first attempt at a reply.

"I don't know," Michael said.

Bulmer started down the hillside but lost his balance on the slick mud and fell. He tumbled to the bottom of the hill while the others remained along the ridgeline.

"Tiller," Michael said, trying to calm the guy with his voice. He released the rock and put his hand on Tiller's shoulder. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's my dad," Tiller whispered hoarsely, rocking, shuddering, and trying to hold back choked sobs.

"What about his dad?" Bulmer asked, standing nearby.

"His dad is dead," Michael said.