Population: Minus 1

The last time eleven year old Wyatt Dobrosco saw his mother alive, she was bound and gagged in the trunk of his father's car: lit only by the yellow porch-light of their unpainted weatherboard house, just outside of Wholesome, Nebraska.

They drove through the darkness. From time to time, Wyatt would tilt his head to gaze up at the moon. His father had nothing to say, and Wyatt, in the passenger seat, didn't feel like talking.

Nebraska was a great place to live if you liked corn. Fields of it stretched out forever on both sides of the road. Wyatt didn't. Never had. Never would.

Sheriff Clint Dobrosco killed the engine, the car's headlights died with it, and the night closed in around them.

'Stay there,' he said.

Wyatt knew better than to argue.

Clint Dobrosco had to twist at the hips and angle his shoulders to haul his six feet and six inch frame out the driver's seat, and the frost-brittle grass growing on the verge shattered beneath the soles of his boots as he made his way to the trunk.

Rosa Dobrosco wasn't a small woman, but the sheriff lifted her easily and carried her over his shoulder into the field, between the rows. The corn was high. The moon was full.

He wasn't gone for long. Wyatt thought he was gone for too long.

He waited until his father had started the car and they were driving away before asking, 'Were they there? Did you see them?'

'They were there,' Clint Dobrosco said.

'Did you see them?' Wyatt repeated.

'No, I didn't see them,' said his father. 'And I don't ever want to.'