Chapter 1

They say a picture's worth a thousand words.

The picture shows an old farmhouse. Probably from the twenties or thirties.

It is blue mostly, though in places where the paint is peeling, you can see an old faded greenish color. It is two stories with a large stone fireplace on one end. The roof is peaked, with two small attic windows.

Five windows look out the from the second floor. They're all open, hoping to catch some of the summer breeze. On the ground floor, a door splits the house and opens into a railed porch that extends the length of the house. Two windows on each side. Half a dozen chairs sit on the porch, and a swing. The porch swing is the only thing newly painted, so white it almost shines. A pair of boots sits by the door.

Behind the house on one side is a large barn. The barn was once a traditional red, but has faded from wind and sun until its color is hard to define. The large doors of the barn are open, and inside, one goat wanders while another lies, grateful for the shade. In front, a dozen chickens peck the ground.

On the other side of the house is a overgrown pasture with six-and-a-half cows grazing peacefully. Further behind the cows, another pasture where a mare and her foal gallop. Fence posts lean this way and that, no two seeming to point the same way, yet the fences that define the two pastures stand.

Above the house, a clear blue sky with a single white cloud shaped like a rocket ship blasting off for far off places. In front of the house, a yard, mostly grass, thick, and in need of cutting, with a few bare patches of hard-packed earth. A walkway of large stones lead to the porch stairs.

The debris of a family litter the yard. A bike lying on its side. A tricycle missing a back wheel. A pogo stick. Pieces of plastic and metal from a dozen toys. A discarded t-shirt.

An idyllic scene.

But smoke leaks from the upstairs windows, turning the sky over the house grey. In the corner room, fire crawls up a curtain. More flames can be seen behind the glass in the other rooms. Everywhere inside, the smoke roils and boils.

Downstairs, smoke pours from the windows and door.

A teenaged boy is jumping from the top of the porch. The picture captures him in air just as a one foot leaves the porch, but before the other can contact the ground. He's wearing faded cut-offs and a green football jersey, the number thirteen just barely visible. He's handsome, though his face is smudged by the soot of the smoke and his hair is wild.

Clutched to his side, a young girl, six or seven, wearing only baggy panties. Held tightly in front of him, a boy of three or four in shorts.

Barely in view, in the front corner of the picture, a teenaged girl, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, on her hands and knees gasping for breath, a baby held tightly to her chest. Next to the girl, a woman sits crying, looking at the house.

They say a picture's worth a thousand words. That was only five hundred and something.

They say a picture tells a story.

They say a picture tells the truth.

This picture lies.