Dave's beaming his flashlight beneath the back porch, muttering under his breath about possums and raccoons and batshit old women with nothing but time and overactive imaginations on their hands when he hears the shout.

"What the -- "

The accompanying thud is unmistakable -- he's heard it enough during fistfights at the lodge and domestic violence calls.

He's half-breathless when he clears the threshold to find Mrs. Freeda standing over Bill, clutching a cast-iron skillet.

"What in God's name -- "

"Don't you take the Lord's name in vain!"

Mrs. Freeda brandishes the skillet and Dave ducks out of the way to crouch beside Bill.

"Bill, you all right? Jesus Christ, Bill -- "

"What did I tell you about swearing?"

Dave turns his head to glare at her.

"Mrs. Freeda, look here, it's Dave, you know me, I'm a deputy. You just knocked out Sheriff Pardy."

"I -- "

She lowers the skillet, looking lost and confused, and Dave turns his attention back to Bill.