The boy did not answer but tossed one of the video game controllers to Packer while he punched in a series of menu commands on the remote control until the television slashed on and a desert battlefield appeared. The boy pushed buttons again and the screen bisected horizontally so that each of the players hunted the other with an assualt rifle and grenades. Packer tried to use what he knew about tactics, proper cover and concealment and ambush positions, but the action was too hectic. The boy's avatar zigzagged impossibly, drawing close and firing into Packer's face before he could get a clean shot. The score grew lopsided and the boy became bored and said he was done playing. Packer looked round at the thin walls, the displaced knick knacks on the pressboard shelves and on the shag carpet. His eye fell on something he'd given Orema years ago sitting on the mantle piece. A plastic egg no bigger than a pea nestled inside the transparent belly of a cut glass hen. He went over and picked it up, handling the small piece, shaking the chicken gently to hear the murmuring rattle inside. "You don't look like no crank cooker," the boy said after a while. "And what would you know about that? Boy your age shouldn't." "I know plenty, I guess." Gravel crunched outside and the long lance of a single headlight swathed the outside dark before the engine shuddered and the light went out. "Go on to the back, Chief." The boy obeyed. Packer returned to his place on the couch and waited. Drema came in alone, carrying a small treasure of groceries in plastic bags. She did not drop them when she saw Packer in her living room. ''I'm surprised it took you this long, Pack," she said. She moved to the kitchen to put the bags on the counter. If she drew a knife from the butcher's block, he did not see it. "Where's Bobby?" she asked. "Don't worry, I'm not here to do any little boys harm."
130 I CHARLES DODD WHITE