“Woe is me”, said Carla Jean as she sees the dust on Harland’s road swirl fast ‘neath the pickup’s load swerving left through the dirt-corn field, hopping hard, bouncing row-to-row.

The day’s light was nearly burned. The husband waits out on his porch.

“Woe is me”, as he steps out to view the scene. He sees his lover here watching faintly through the window clear…charging fast from the porch-step stones to the creases of the old man’s throat.

The low light couldn’t screen the sight of a lover’s hands swinging wild. The arms that culled the wife’s bold moans were killers now with hardened bones.

“There is Diego’s Son…a sullen killer who doesn’t run.”

“How it seems is not the way it reads to me. My woman’s eyes were black two days out of three. Her five young kids were bored, always crying begging for relief.”

“There is Diego’s Son…a sullen killer who doesn’t run. Who has no shame for the deeds he’s done. Who loves the wife of the murdered one. Who took a life with his bare brunt bones. The way he smiles. The way it’s almost calm. Woe is me. Woe is me, the youngest killer in Braine County.”

“There is Diego’s Son”, said Carla Jean, as she stepped clear of the street.