Wind sweeps across the corn stumps covering the barron fields on each side of the small house. Two crows startled by something soundless and unseen explode skyward and take refuge in a leafless tree at the furthest corner of a field. We see now what has scared them; a pony and trap is running the length of a white dust track leading from the main road to the door of the house. It cuts straight through the field close to where the crows had been.
One man, a whip and a bag are riding in the trap. We see them as black shadows against the harsh white of the track.
The town of Corwin, Ohio is bleak and forgotton; a cluster of farm houses clinging to a road that runs hard and fast both into and immediately out of the town. A weather vein squeaks in circles from a barn roof. A dog looks up from the porch of the house. The door opens behind him as the trap pulls to a halt.
"Doctor Monroe?"
The Doctor takes his time on the staircase, he plants his steps with a sense of calm deliberation and seems to revel in each wheezing creak he creates.
"Is the boy in the far room?"
"Yes Doctor".
"I think you better stay downstairs."
Mrs Philips pauses for a moment on the lower step but she does as he says. She returns to the kitchen where a small fire burns. The fire is so small we hadn't seen the smoke from outside but we can imagine it now rising in thin curling fingers from the chimney.
She takes a crow's meat pie from the table and cuts into it. The crust is think and black at the edges but inside the meat is only half cooked. There's blood on the knife.
The bedroom door opens slowly and the Doctor's head appears from behind it. The boy sees a top hat, small pinching glasses locked to the high bridge of a thin nose, and large grey-white sideburns running each side of it. He breathes quickly through gritted teeth as the doctor approaches the bed.
"James?"
The boy nods. The doctor asks him to focus on a spot on the ceiling and pulls back the bedcovers.
"Who did this to you?"
The boy says nothing.
"Your Mother thinks you did it yourself."
The boy moves his head to look at the wall to his left.
When the doctor enters the kitchen the pie has gone and Mrs Philips is sat at the table gazing out of the small window looking out onto the snow scortched fields. She turns to him as he places the bag upon the table top. He takes his overcoat from the back of a chair.
"You're sure he did it himself?"
"Who else would be out here? I figure he led on top of the musket and just pulled the trigger somehow. Will he be ok?"
The doctor pulls a black leather glove over his left hand.
"For now but not for long. The charge passed straight through him. I gave him something to help him sleep, let him rest a while."
Mrs Philips hangs her head.
"Since his father died he's done nothing but read these dangerous books, I can only think that's the cause - adventure stories and the like. God only knows what they do to a boy's mind."
"Are you sure no-one else could be involved?"
Framed by the window, the two crows abandon their treetop and return to the field.
"No, it's them books alright Doctor."
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