The eleven interconnected stories in The World Is But a Broken Heart follow the Fitzpatricks, a blue-collar family constantly followed by bad luck. Dale, Kenny, and Patrick are tied to each other as only brothers can be. They antagonize each other, fight and argue. More importantly, they look out for one another in a sometimes-violent household. These stories do not shy away from difficult truths: parents who struggle to be parents; a mother who falls into despair; a father numbed by killing for a living; a sudden and violent death during a strike at a meat packing plant; a life insurance salesman who specializes in selling to the bereaved; a grieving student who finds comfort in a relationship with a teacher; and finally, a grown man who makes amends with his estranged—and dying—brother. This coming-of-age collection of stories is a testament to the human spirit and the unbreakable bond between brothers.

from The Rabbit

Patrick sensed that his father had been resigned to putting the rabbit out of its misery the moment she told him what had happened. Henry stared at the woman. He shook his head, curled his lower lip.

“Go with...” he began, looking at the lady.

“Melinda,” she stammered.

“Go with Melinda,” he ordered, turning to his son. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

It was not the time to argue. Patrick followed Melinda to her car.

“Wait at the top of the hill.”

Melinda bit her lower lip and watched as Patrick climbed into the passenger seat. She started up the Escort, reversed it around the Electra, careful not to hit the rabbit, before pulling a three-point turn and turning up the hill in the direction Henry and Patrick had come. As they passed, Patrick gazed at his father. He had pulled another cigarette from the pack and was smoking, staring down at the rabbit. Through the side-view mirror, Patrick watched Henry let the cigarette drop out of his hand and stub it out with his foot before turning to the Electra. He was not one to waste a smoke.

“Poor thing just jumped out of the bush,” Melinda explained as she drove up the hill. “There was nothing I could do.”

As she parked the car and turned off the motor, Patrick listened for the rumble of the Electra engine.

“It’s a man’s work, isn’t it?” she said.

“What is?”

“Killing.” Her eyes were full of fear..

“I guess so.”

Patrick knew it would be quick. Clean. The revving of the Electra’s engine confirmed that the car was moving towards its intended target. Patrick reached over and grabbed the radio knob. The woman gripped his hand, uncertain as to what he was about to do. She stared into his eyes and released her grip. “Sorry.”

Patrick turned the radio on low and stared out the window, tuning in with one ear to the latest hit from the tinny-sounding A.M. station while listening to the Electra with the other. As he stared out across the farmer’s field, at the ripe, golden, waist-high grain wavering in the summer breeze, he cringed, and closed his eyes, imagined his father, his face sombre, hunched over the steering wheel, country tunes rattling from the Electra’s worn-out speakers as he lined the driver’s side tire with the rabbit. He saw the long face of the doomed rabbit, its eyes black with fear, its nose and ears twitching uncontrollably, its claws ripped red as it frantically dug into the oily road as if it could somehow miraculously bury itself below ground level safe from death, yet unable to do anything but stare and claw, claw and stare, as a ton of red steel and chrome crept toward it.

The shifting of gears signalled that Henry was turning the car around, a confirmation that he had completed what the woman had asked him to do.

“Your dad. Is he a farmer?”

“With a car like that? Not likely.”

“What does he do? For a living?”

The engine returned to a steady idle. The time between the sound of the car door opening and closing told Patrick that his father had disposed of the rabbit in the ditch. The magpies let out a collective warble of delight.

“He works at the Tanner meatpacking plant.”

The woman cringed.

“He kills the livestock as they come in,” Patrick continued with a feigned sense of pride. “With a bolt gun.” Patrick began to make a trigger with his thumb and forefinger. The woman put up her hand. She shook her head and turned away.

He’s good at it.”

“Good at?” she asked.

“Killing things.”