Epiphany I murdered a dog one day in 1986. Stephen’s mom made us jello snacks and iced tea. Mr. Poole’s steamed crabs were always a hit. “You did what?” The .38 police special with blued steel was cold against the bare skin of my back. The black carpenter used to leave us leftover wood for our fort. Nice guy. The police never suspected Stephen or me, even after that house incident. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. Twentytwo years later I told my mother. The Poole’s were nice enough. They used to invite neighbors over for picnics. My father never even noticed the missing bullets. I cried. Stephen laughed. The Shepherd whimpered. I hate myself. Sulfur. Gun oil. Soap. Old Bay and death.