140 The Meadow them over. Their porch light turned on, and I saw that I had hit their house multiple times. Their yellow dog ran in circles limping. I had hit it in the leg, which it favored, and what I couldn’t see then, but would see later, that one of the paintballs found its target in the dog’s eye; blood and paint mixed down its snout. I felt hollowed out. Behind me, the barn door opened. Adam stood with his shirt in his hand, silhouetted in the light of the heat lamps. Behind him, strewn over the hay and wood chips, at the feet of the chickens, who were fine, were the heads of the tulips, like rose petals. They were beautiful. And then all that shouting.
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