A Bend in the Road by Nicholas Sparks

structure blanketed in kudzu on the outskirts of New
Bern. It had decayed over the years and was completely abandoned, as it had
been since Miles was a kid. Most of the time, no one bothered with the place.
The floors were so old and rotten that they could give way any second, and rain
poured in through the gaping holes in the roof. The structure also tilted slightly,
as if a strong gust of wind would topple it someday. Though New Bern didn’t
have a big problem with vagrants, even the ones who were around knew enough to
avoid the place for the danger it presented. 
But now, in broad daylight no less, he heard the gunfire start up
again—not a large-caliber gun, most likely a twenty-two—and he suspected there
was a simple explanation, one that didn’t pose much of a threat to him.  Still, he wasn’t stupid enough to take any
chances. Opening his door, he slid forward on the seat and flicked a switch on
the radio, so that his voice would be amplified, loud enough for the people
inside the house to hear him.  “This is
the sheriff,” he said calmly, slowly. “If you boys are about finished, I’d like
y’all to come out so I can talk to you. And I’d appreciate it if you set your
guns off to the side.”
    With that, the
gunfire stopped completely. After a few minutes, Miles saw a head poke out from
one of the front windows. The boy was no older than twelve.  “You ain’t gonna shoot us, are you?” he
called out, obviously frightened.  “No,
I’m not gonna shoot. Just set your guns by the door and come on down so I can
talk to you.”
    For a minute
Miles heard nothing, as if the kids inside were wondering whether or not to
make a run for it. They weren’t bad kids, Miles knew, just a little too rural
for today’s world. He was sure they’d rather run than have Miles bring them
home to meet with their parents.
    “Now come on
out,” Miles said into the microphone. “I just want to talk.” Finally, after
another minute, two boys—the second a few years younger than the first—peeked
out from either side of the opening where the front door used to be. Moving
with exaggerated slowness, they set their guns off to the side and, hands
thrust high in the air, stepped out. Miles suppressed a grin. Shaky and pale,
they looked as if they believed they were going to be a source of target
practice any second. Once they’d descended the broken steps, he stood from
behind the car and holstered his gun. When they saw him, they stutter-stepped
for a moment, then slowly continued forward. Both were dressed in faded blue
jeans and torn-up sneakers, their faces and arms dirty. Country kids. As they
inched forward, they kept their arms thrust above their heads, elbows locked.  They’d obviously seen too many movies.
    When they got
close, Miles could see that both of them were practically crying.  Miles leaned against his car and crossed his
arms. “You boys doin’ some hunting?”
    The younger
one—ten, Miles guessed—looked to the older one, who met his gaze.
    They were clearly
brothers.
    “Yes, sir,” they
said in unison.
    “What’s in the
house there?”
    Again they looked
at each other.
    “Sparrows,” they
finally said, and Miles nodded.
    “You can put your
hands down.”
    Again they exchanged
glances. Then they lowered their arms.
    “You sure you
weren’t going after any owls?”
    “No, sir,” the
older boy said quickly. “Just sparrows. There’s a whole bunch of ’em in there.”
    Miles nodded
again. “Sparrows, huh?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He pointed in the
direction of the rifles. “Those twenty-twos?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “That’s a little
much for sparrows, isn’t it?”
    Their looks were
guilty this time. Miles eyed them sternly. 
“Now look . . . if you were owl hunting, I’m not gonna be too happy. I
like owls. They eat the rats and the mice and even snakes, and I’d rather have
an owl around than any of those creatures, especially in my yard. But I’m
pretty sure from all that