“Woodrow, what in the shit are you doing?” Chuck muttered as the boys followed Gomer Griffith down a dilapidated path towards the center of town. The mechanic was rambling on about the festivities and didn’t seem to mind that nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention. Goober followed his dad, close and silent like a shadow.

  “There’s a lot of people here. I’d rather not shoot ‘em all if we can help it,” Woodrow replied. “Besides, that was a nasty dip we took — the axle might really be busted. Let’s just humor them for a little bit, wait til they’re nice and drunk, and one of us can slink back to the shop and see what’s really goin’ on.”

  “Guess we don’t have much of a choice now, do we?” Chuck said. “So, who’s gonna do the slinkin’?”

  “Bill Jones, of course.”

  “Hmm,” Bill Jones responded. He was studying the two Griffiths and didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the boys’ conversation, but Woodrow was sure that Bill Jones would know what to do — he always did.

  “Alright boys, we’re here,” said Gomer. They didn’t need someone to tell them; everyone in town was already gathered around the statue. A group of young men stood facing the crowd and whistled a cheerful, dissonant tune that cut through the noise of the townsfolk. Skinny men in cheap cop costumes littered the town square shouting phrases that felt like inside jokes. Some people held food and drinks above their heads and shouted the price.

  And in the middle of all the commotion, there stood a shining bronze statue of a man holding a fishing pole.

  “A bit smaller than I expected, to tell you the truth,” Woodrow said to himself. Gomer snapped his neck back at him and frowned for a moment, but the smile quickly returned to his face.

  “Just as tall as the man himself,” he said proudly. “Andy wouldn’t have wanted a big ol’ monument anyway. That’s not the kind of man he is.”

  “Sorry, meant no offense,” Woodrow replied. “It’s a damn nice statue. Clearly y’all do a lot of upkeep on it.”

  “Upkeep? No, no. Nobody’s touched that statue in decades. You don’t embrace Andy unless he tells you to. Ain’t that right Goober?”

  Goober nodded enthusiastically. “I hope he calls me up one day,” the boy said in a mousey little voice. “It’s the greatest honor a man can have.”

  “Sure is, son. Sure is.” Gomer patted his boy on the head. “Now, how about we join in on the fun! Get some grub in you before it gets dark. The food will be gone before the ceremony starts.”

  The more the mechanic spoke, the crazier he sounded. Bill Jones’s hands fidgeted in the pockets of his blue jeans.

  “Those chipmunks on a stick are lookin’ pretty good.” Woodrow pointed to a man waving around a handful of skewered roasted rodents. “How about we meet back up with you before the ceremony?”

  “Sure, if you can find me,” Gomer said. He grabbed his son’s hand and the two of them dissolved into the crowd.

  The boys were free of the gaunt mechanic, but it was clear that they were still be supervised. You would’ve thought the boys had rolled around in a hog trough before they came to the function, the way everyone gawked at them as they walked past. They smiled their usual plastic smiles when they saw Woodrow and Bill Jones, but something was different about the way they looked at Chuck. Their mouths straightened and their eyes hung on him to the point that they were bumping into each other because they couldn’t avert their gazes.

  “I think they like you, Chuck,” Woodrow said before handing a man five dollars for a chipmunk on a stick.

  “Shut up,” Chuck said. He wasn’t enjoying the attention. Even the rodent roaster stopped trying to wave down people when Chuck approached him.

  “My, you’re his spittin’ image,” he said to Chuck, in awe.

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  “What? Spittin’ image of who?” Chuck asked.

  The rodent roaster used one of his sticks to point to the statue. It was far away and people swarmed it like ants, so it was tough to say if he was right.

  “Well, uh, thank you, I suppose,” Chuck said and headed in the other direction. The boys hustled after him until he stopped and turned around.

  “I don’t feel good about any of this. We gotta get out of here. I’m gonna go get the truck. I’ll put change the damn tire myself if I have to. Bill Jones, you can stay here,” he said.

  “Works for me,” Bill Jones said. “Kinda want to see that statue anyway.”

  The sun was going down fast; it was almost dark. Chuck shuffled towards Gomer’s shop, but he didn’t make it far. Before he was even out of Woodrow’s sight, a gang of fake police officers circled around him.

  “Come on, Andy. You’re not gonna stay for my birthday party?” one of the men said. “Your deputy only has one birthday a year, you know, and he’d appreciate it if you didn’t miss it.”

  “I know how much you love Aunt Bea’s birthday cakes, boss,” another fake cop said. “Don’t wanna miss this one — blueberry and vanilla!”

  Woodrow ran up to the circle, but there was no way to get in. He saw over a fake cop’s shoulder that Chuck was feeling the holster of his gun.

  “Shit. What should we do?” Woodrow asked Bill Jones — but Bill Jones was gone. He was pushing his way through the crowd, towards the statue.

  Woodrow didn’t have time to guess at what Bill Jones might be up to. He grabbed two of the cops by their shoulders and sent them to the ground.

  “Chuck, don’t do anything crazy,” he said. “This ain’t the time to start shootin’.”

  “I reckon if I did somethin’ crazy, I’d fit right in with the good people of Mount Airy,” Chuck retorted. He reached into his waistband and gripped his gun.

  “Good people of Mount Airy! We’ve brought you a gift! Something you’ve been searching for for a long time!” Woodrow whipped around and saw Bill Jones standing on a bench right next to the statue, his hands cupped around his mouth. “Tonight, on Fife day of all days, we bring you Andy Griffith’s only surviving kin! Everybody say hello to Chuck Griffith!”

  Several thousand people all turned around at the same time to look at Chuck.

  “It’s true! I saw him! He’s gotta be kin!” an old woman in the crowd shouted.

  The mass of people buzzed and moved away from the statue and closer to Chuck.

  “I knew it was really you,” one of the fake cops said. “We knew you’d come someday. A real Griffith in the flesh. Ready to bring us back our home. Andy must’ve called you here, huh?”

  The whole town waited for his response; he responded by shooting his gun straight up in the air.

  “I suggest y’all back away from me slowly and carry on with whatever you were doin’,” he said. Everybody stood stock still. They didn’t even dare to breathe.

  “If he’s really Andy’s kin, then he should touch the statue and prove it!” a defiant old man with a crooked back spoke up.

  “He’s gonna, of course!” said the old lady. “He just got here!”

  “I’m not gonna do a damn thing!” Chuck said. “Not a damn thing except go to my truck and get the hell out of here!”

  The crowd burst into hysterics.

  “No!” “We’re sorry!” “Please don’t leave!” “You’re Andy’s kin!” “You’re our guiding light!” “We love you!” They wailed at him, tears streaming down their faces.

  “I can’t believe you’re tryin’ to scare Andy’s kin off!” One of the cops pulled the crooked-backed old man out of the crowd by his arm. “Tell him you’re sorry! Now!”

  “That ain’t no kin of Andy!” the old man insisted. “He don’t even look that much like him, now that I’m up close.”

  The cop pulled the gun from its plastic holster and shot the old man in the chest. The rest of the cops followed his lead and took turns putting holes in the old man until he stopped breathing.

  “Good lord,” Woodrow said to himself. This was bad. Chuck pointed his gun at the crowd. Gomer and Goober came up from behind and pushed past him.

  “Let me talk to him,” Gomer said to the cops. “I’m his friend.”

  Chuck fixed his gun on the mechanic. “Like hell you are!”

  Still, Gomer took another step closer.

  “We’re real sorry about him,” he gestured to the corpse of the old man. “He was always hollerin’ about somethin’ or another. It was bound to get him killed someday. But he doesn’t represent us. We love you. We need you. Lead us to greener pastures, kin of Andy.”

  Chuck was a cornered animal, desperately looking for a way out. Woodrow wasn’t feeling much better. The air felt as if it were electrified, like all hell could break loose at any moment.

  Bill Jones, what in the world were you thinkin’?

  He got his answer quicker than he thought. First, he heard the roar of an engine. Next, he saw a truck hurtle right into the crowd and crush everyone in its path. Bill Jones plowed a bloody path right up between the boys, stuck his arm out of the window, and started shooting at the cops.

  “Get in!” he shouted over the sound of gunfire. Woodrow and Chuck were happy to oblige, and flung themselves into the truck bed on top of their hoard of guns. Chuck stuck his hand under the tarp, pulled out his Ruger, and unloaded on the good people of Mount Airy. Woodrow had never seen a sorrier sight. He wished that his eyes didn’t work so well so that he couldn’t see the anguished faces on the twitching, dying men as they drove away.