He flashed back to his mostly happy childhood spent in this bustling, chaotic, loud mess of a family. It was much quieter now, like the house was half slumbering, waiting to wake again.

A call reached him. “Qui c’est q’ça?”

“It’s me, Dad!” he called back.

To find his father only required turning his nose toward the heaviest pall of pipe smoke and following the soft, scratchy sound of zydeco music. His father was in his study down the hall. A stone fireplace filled one wall; the rest held shelves stacked with books.

“There you are, Jack.” His father made a half gesture toward rising out of his recliner.

Jack waved him back down.

He settled back with a sigh. His father was nearly crippled with arthritis. His once robust frame had withered to bone, knotted at the joints. He probably should be in a nursing home, but here was where he was the most content, with his books, his music, and his old hunting dog, Burt, the last of a long line of bloodhounds. The dogs were as much a part of the Menard family as any brother or sister.

The black-and-tan bloodhound lay by the cold hearth, sprawled across the cool stone, all legs and ears. At thirteen years, he had gone gray in the muzzle, but he remained strong and healthy and had a nose like no other.

A nose Jack wanted to borrow for the night.

His father tamped some more tobacco into his pipe. “Heard you’re taking the boys out to do a little hunting.”

Burt lifted his head, ear cocked, responding to a welcome word. His tail thumped once, almost a question, asking if he’d heard right. His nose might be sharp, but his hearing was fading.

“That we are,” Jack answered them both.

“Good, good. Your mother cleaned and oiled your rifle. She’s out back with your cousin, hanging the laundry.”