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The Crovens lived in a neighborhood where every house had a natural stone facade, every backyard an inground pool, and every driveway a pickup the size of my childhood apartment. I stowed my Honda across the street and trekked about a quarter-mile to the front door, dodging a lawn-mowing landscaper on the way. Inside, Mrs. Croven piloted me to their kitchen island while Tom Croven proudly offered me a Pabst, as if to say, I’ve shot guns too, you know. “How’s your boy?” I asked. “Bullet fragment ripped through his wrist. Had to call us with his left. When we