The Rural Ma~l~Carrier was weeping when he hit the boy.<br > There were othe~，，factors. Blaze of eastern sun on the dusty wind<br >shield， loud music--Rod Stewart s "Maggie May"--bundles of mai<br >crowding him against the door.<br > A shadow and a bump.<br > A shadow， a bump， and the boy flew across the ditch and snagged<br >ke torn paper in the drooping barbed wire.<br > Birds exploded from the tall weeds along the fence.<br > They found some things around the dead boy. A school copy of<br >Jack London s The Call of the Wild， a plastic bag of mushy ground<br >beef， a cheap pocketknife featuring a spoon and fork. The tool was<br >so old that when a deputy examined it while waiting for the coroner<br >to arrive， one of the fork s fines fell off. The metal was fatigued. The<br >deputy glanced around， refolded the knife， and walked over to stand<br >by the other deputy， who was smoking a cigarette and looking at the<br >Jack London. "I can t believe it. This was one of my favorite books<br >in junior high."<br > "Hmm."<br > "You ever read Jack London?"<br > "No. I wish they d get here."<br > "I haven t read this book in I don t know， something like what?<br >Thirteen， twenty-three， thirty-three. Twenty years? That can t be.<br >No that s right. Twenty years."<br > "Look at his shoes. Look how beat-up they are. Imagine dying in<br >old shoes like that."<br > The dead boy s mother kept dropping glasses but the men in the<br >bar that early in the day were immune to the shock of noise. One<br >two three glasses in two hou}s. She made a pot of coffee and dumped<br >it out five minutes later thinking it was old. She lighted a cigarette<br >and placed it in an ashtray and a few minutes later， after re-supplying<br >the men， she lighted a second cigarette at the other ennk~ftFfe bar. <br ><br >