Over the Plain Houses. Julia Franks

as to stifle the sound of the drag. When he turned to ease the door shut, the latch slid down without a hitch, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d oiled it.

      The rack over the door held two guns. He touched the octagonal barrel of the Winchester, then lifted it from its supports and pushed the clip up from the bottom of the stock until it clicked. He checked the safety before he pulled back the bolt and then eased it forward, watching the bullet slide into the chamber, the sound of metal against metal cold and definite as daylight. With his thumb, he touched the safety again and stepped onto the porch. The yard looked the same, but darkened, stilled, waiting. He cradled the rifle across his torso, the heft of it solid against his chest. Nothing.