Toward the end of the summer many of the boys became feral, wild, like dogs who’d squirmed under fences, out-of-date tags rusting on slipped collars left in ditches. They ran the streets, lone wolves or in small packs, scavenging food from trash cans, or pairing up for a take of the sweets by the front-door counter of convenience stores. One kid would lie in wait outside, while the other slipped in, banging shut the door of the restroom before locking himself inside. After a while, the clerk would become agitated and go to see what was taking the boy so long, at which time the second boy, watching from outside for his chance, would rush in and grab whatever sweets he could find. Sometimes he’d grab cigarettes, too.

Then, one night, things went terribly wrong. Never hit the same place twice, said Cousin Bernard. But the feral boys hadn’t heard him, I guess. Not that he was speaking to them. They’d tried their regular scheme a second time at the same store. The only problem was that the restroom was now locked, and the proprietor knew who the boys were. The inside boy ran, but didn’t get far. He was shot in the back. Shot dead. Then the other boy was chased down, and shot. He was just standing there, staring in disbelief, his pants falling down from his attempt at a quick exit. An easy target.

Their ghosts still linger, looking with longing through the window at the candy selection. Perhaps they should have waited until the moon wasn’t full, said Cousin Bernard. But we know that wasn’t the problem. The streetlight shone more brightly than any full moon. No, that wasn’t it. We knew that Cousin Bernard was simply tired of the theft. And Cousin Bernard probably liked shooting kids in the back. If he could get away with it, that is. He didn’t mind the ghosts either. They kept him company and didn’t really eat that much. But most of all, they weren’t very bright, and he never lost an argument with them. And this was very important to cousin Bernard. Very important indeed.