It’s the sheriff who comes by, asking Joey McKay about his uncle Dale. “He busted up the camera on County Road Twenty-Three,” Sheriff Landing says. Her name’s Charlotte, but Joey’s never heard someone call her anything but “Crash” since they were in high school. She’s small and boyish, and the rolled-up sleeves of her sheriff’s uniform reveal tattoos twisting up her left arm like vines on a lattice. She stands on the walkway to Joey’s doublewide, more in the shadows than not, barely catching any of the illumination coming off the front porch lights. Most of that falls on Joey