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           "Ihaven’tshotaguninthirtyyears—"

           Mr.TatealmostthrewtherifleatAtticus."I’dfeelmightycomfortableifyoudidnow,"hesaid.

           Inafog,JemandIwatchedourfathertakethegunandwalkoutintothemiddleofthestreet.Hewalkedquickly,butIthoughthemovedlikeanunderwaterswimmer:timehadslowedtoanauseatingcrawl.

           WhenAtticusraisedhisglassesCalpurniamurmured,"SweetJesushelphim,"andputherhandstohercheeks.

           Atticuspushedhisglassestohisforehead;theyslippeddown,andhedroppedtheminthestreet.Inthesilence,Iheardthemcrack.Atticusrubbedhiseyesandchin;wesawhimblinkhard.

           InfrontoftheRadleygate,TimJohnsonhadmadeupwhatwasleftofhismind.Hehadfinallyturnedhimselfaround,topursuehisoriginalcourseupourstreet.Hemadetwostepsforward,thenstoppedandraisedhishead.Wesawhisbodygorigid.

           Withmovementssoswifttheyseemedsimultaneous,Atticus’shandyankedaball-tippedleverashebroughttheguntohisshoulder.

           Theriflecracked.TimJohnsonleaped,floppedoverandcrumpledonthesidewalkinabrown-and-whiteheap.Hedidn’tknowwhathithim.

           Mr.TatejumpedofftheporchandrantotheRadleyPlace.Hestoppedinfrontofthedog,squatted,turnedaroundandtappedhisfingeronhisforeheadabovehislefteye."Youwerealittletotheright,Mr.Finch,"hecalled.