Chapter 1: Buddy at the Window

When I was a kid, my family had a raccoon named Buddy. He was sharp as a tack—so clever he could mimic almost anything we did. I remember mornings at our old oak kitchen table, a half-eaten box of Honey Nut Cheerios between me and Dad, and Buddy perched on the window ledge, watching us with those beady eyes. There was a faded family photo by the fridge, Dad in his John Deere cap, all of us grinning, and even Buddy managed to get his little paw in the shot.

Back then, out in the sticks of southern Indiana, it wasn’t all that strange for folks to take in foundlings—rescued critters from the woods, or animals someone dropped off at the local feed store. But Buddy was something different—he’d watch us with those bright, calculating eyes, soaking up every little thing we did. Sometimes he’d try to open doors or paw at the old chunky Zenith remote, his little fingers working the buttons like he’d seen us do. Dad used to laugh and say, “That rascal’s gonna take over the house if we’re not careful.”

Later, my mom gave birth to my little brother. I remember the day we brought him home—my stomach a twist of excitement and confusion. Was I supposed to be jealous? Protective? I didn’t know. Out here, babies got bathed in a blue plastic tub set out on the porch, with the sun warm on their faces and the garden just beyond. I watched Mom cradle him, half in awe, half worried I’d be forgotten.

It was the kind of scene you’d find in an old photo album tucked in a cedar chest: sunlight pouring through the porch railings, a baby giggling in a blue Rubbermaid tub, the sharp green smell of tomato vines drifting from the garden, and the soft scent of Ivory soap floating in the air. Cicadas buzzed, bubbles drifted, and the water was always just a little too warm, making the air thick and comforting around us. It felt timeless, like something passed down from one generation to the next.

One evening, Mom took me out to pick tomatoes, our hands sticky and red, laughter echoing off the barn. We left my baby brother at home, just for a minute. When we came back, everything felt normal—until we saw the steaming tub in the backyard. My brother lay in the water, his skin split and peeling, blotched with angry red and purple marks. The world stopped.