The Fight

Tuesday, September 9th

Kylie wasn't at school today, but I wish she had been there. Andrew and Jake were back. They're the two boys who'd passed out in class last week. But I think they let them out of the hospital too soon. At lunch, Darryl called Jake Blue-Face and Jake punched Darryl. Next thing I knew, Andrew was on top of Darryl, yanking at his hair. Mrs. Johansson, the principal, yelled at them to stop fighting, but Jake kept hitting Darryl and Andrew yanked out handfuls of hair. Julianne, one of the girls who hang all over Darryl, ran to get Nurse Joe and he injected the two boys with something. They slumped to the ground and so did Darryl. Blood poured out of his nose. Nurse Joe propped him up and tilted back his head. His jaw didn't look right. Julianne and Brooke were hugging each other and crying. The rest of us just sat there and stared. Darryl was still out when the ambulance arrived. They loaded him onto a stretcher and carried him out. The police came and cuffed Andrew and Jake and took them away. No one ate their lunch. And no one said a word the rest of the day. I wanted to ask the other kids if Andrew and Jake were usually like that, but everyone was so withdrawn they didn't even notice when I started to speak, so I just kept my mouth shut too. Hopefully Kylie will be at school tomorrow and I can ask her.

Our Secret

Monday, September 8th
After dinner
Of course, we didn't catch any fish so we had Mom's meatloaf for dinner, which was fine. Mom makes some pretty good meatloaf. But sitting at dinner was hard the secret I now shared with Dad hung between us, exciting as an unwrapped Christmas gift, but terrible at the same time. It was the only thing we wanted to talk about and the one thing we couldn't mention.

When got to the house, Dad had wanted to see the skeleton first. "Looks like she'd been splitting wood," he said in a low voice. "Died instantly from the look of it. Splitting wood one minute, then bam."

"Can you tell how long ago she died?" I asked.

"I'm no anthropologist, but I'd say these bones have been here awhile. Look how white they are." He picked up the skull and studied it for a minute, then pointed to the place the bullet had been. "This is where the bullet was, right?"

"How could you tell?"

"Look at the fracture marks. There and there. I'd say she was shot from behind."

"A coward's shot. I have seen enough old Westerns to know that much."

Dad just nodded. "Coward's shot and left to rot without so much as a shallow grave." He put the skull back where he'd found it. "Let's go look around the house."

Dad's eyes got wide when he looked at the cans of food on the shelf. He picked up a funny shaped can with a pull top and turned it over in his hand. "Spam," he smiled. "I used to love Spam. Your grandma would fry it up and serve it with eggs and hash brown potatoes. Wonder if it's still good."

"You're not going to eat it, are you?"

He squinted at the expiration date. "Only ten years past the expiration date. I bet it's fine. Thing about Spam is that it lasts forever." He put the can in his pocket.

"What if Mom sees it?"

"I'll wait until she's asleep to fry it up." He picked up a few more cans and checked their expiration dates. "Some of this food's almost as old as I am."

"Pre-terrorist?" I asked.

"Definitely pre-terrorist. See this brand here? It was a small factory in butt-fuck nowhere. During the terrorist round-up, some senator found salmonella in a can of beans. Don't know if it was really there or not. The point is, the government shut them down and tried the owners as terrorists. Accused them of trying to assassinate a government official."

"What happened to them?"

"You know, I don't remember. Humane execution more likely than not. People got that for less."

"But how would they know the senator would eat that can of beans? That' doesn't make sense."

"It's the government, Mandy. It doesn't have to make sense." He put down the can of food and closed the cabinet door. He looked out the window.

My eyes followed his and I noticed that the sun was starting to slide down between the branches of the trees.

"Sunset gets earlier every night," he sighed. "I guess we'd better start back."

"You can borrow the journal if you want to read it."

"I'd love to read it." His voice got serious and soft. "Something happened here all those years ago, something no one talked about at least that I remember."

We left the house and walked through the darkening woods. Dad seemed lost in thought and didn't say much. But every so often a crow laughed from the trees.

USG4 2014

Monday, September 8th

I was surprised to see my Dad waiting in the school parking lot when school let out. Usually I take the bus.

"Want a ride home?" he asked.

"How'd you get off work so early?"

"I went in early and got my paperwork done. I wanted to go see that house of yours if you're willing to show me."

"Because of that bullet?" I whispered.

Dad glanced around furtively. He led me to where he had parked the car without saying a word. After we were inside he started the engine. It was only then that he started to speak. "It might be best to keep that bullet a secret."

"It's not just a bullet from a hunting rifle, is it?"

Dad shook his head. "That bullet was government issue, I know that much. And it was made before the terror outbreaks started."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"That marking on it. I had an uncle who served in the military. I saw his bullets once and he explained how they were labeled. 2014 was the year that bullet was made."
"So the woman was shot by someone in the military?" I knew my eyes were wide. "Does that mean Mom was right and she was a terrorist? Because that doesn't make sense, not if you read the journal."

"I'm not sure what it means. All I know is it's made me damn curious to see the house and read this journal you found."

I could hardly believe it. I thought about what they taught in history class about the years leading up to the terrorist outbreak and the time just after. Sure, the government had rounded up a lot of people and questioned them, but they wouldn't have gone out and shot a woman who was just trying to survive, would they? Or maybe....my mother's voice nagged at me...maybe she really was a terrorist and the journal was just some story she made up, just fiction. "What if..." I started to ask Dad if he thought the military would do that...just shoot an innocent woman, but then thought maybe I didn't want to know.

Dad seemed to know what I was thinking because he changed the subject and asked me how school was going. I told him a few funny stories about my classes and by that time, we were home.

"Let's just peek in and tell your mother we're here," he said.

"She'll wonder where we're going."

"I'll take care of that," he said. "She'll worry if she thinks you didn't come home from school."

I knew he was right. Any little thing sets Mom to worrying these days.

We went inside and found Mom watching the television, knitting needles working up and down through soft light turquoise yarn. Dad walked over and kissed her cheek. She held up the blanket she was working on. "I finally figured out what I'm doing. Do you like it?"

"It looks great, Julie." Dad said.

"Yeah, Mom. Is it fun to do?"

Mom giggled a little. "I guess it is, in a way. Well, not at first. Your father's lucky he wasn't around the first three or four times I tried to make it work. I would have jabbed one of these needles in his side just for suggesting I make a blanket for the baby."

"Good thing I was at work," Dad said. "Speaking of which, I got off a little early and thought I'd take Mandy out and show her how to fish. Want to come along?"

"I'll pass. You don't expect me to cook what you catch, do you?"

"We'll be back before dinner," Dad said. "And IF we catch anything, which I doubt, I'll fry it up myself."

Dad kissed Mom on the cheek and we left the house.

"The fishing rods and tackle box are in the car," he said, as he walked to the car. "We'd best take them just to keep our story straight." He took out too long poles and a box. He handed one of the poles to me. "Which way?"

"Down that path there. The house is just a bit past the pond."

"Good. That makes our alibi even better."

Going to Church

Sunday, September 7th

Mom insisted that we go to church this morning. She said it was a good way to meet some decent neighbors. She emphasized the word decent and glared at Dad as she said it. Not that Mom is religious. When we lived inside the safety net, we only went to church for Christmas, Easter, weddings, and funerals, and even then Dad complained. He said church wasn't the same since they standardized the Bible. He still has his old family Bible and he says if he wants religion on any particular day, that's the Bible he'll read, at least until the government takes it from him.

Mom says she doubts there's any danger of that. Dad disagrees. He says that requiring the standardized Bible in public services is just the first step. Mom says the standardized Bible is the same, but simplified so that people can understand it better. They have the same argument every time we go to church, including this morning.

The church was new and small. A stained glass window in the shape of a cross was positioned behind the podium so that the light shone through it and cast little colors of light around the preacher. A small angel looked out from smaller stained glass windows along the sides. Instead of hard pews like they had in the city, we sat on padded folding chairs. People were friendly and walked up to us, introducing themselves and shaking our hands. I'll never remember any of the names, but that's alright. I did see a couple of kids I knew from school. The ones who recognized me glanced over and smiled.

A group of five did the singing. I didn't know the songs, but they projected the words on a screen. A few people around mouthed the words, a couple tapped their feet. Most just stood and stared. After the songs, the preacher stood up and read from the standardized blue Bible. A tiny flag adorned its thin outer edge. Dad muttered that a Bible has no business being so thin and blue. His family bible is thick and bound in black leather. Its gold-edged pages are filled with tiny print. A couple people nodded as he read. Most stared up at him with no expression. After he finished reading, the singers sang again and a collection plate was passed. I noticed that almost everyone put something in the plate, even the kids. I had nothing to add, but I did see Mom and Dad both add a bill to the pile. When the songs were over, someone gave a prayer and it was over. In the lobby, Mom stood around and talked to people. Dad went outside to have a smoke and I followed him.

"None of your friends here?" he asked.

"I know a couple of the kids, but not very well."

Dad looked around and noticed we were alone. "I covered for you yesterday with your mother, but I'm curious. Where did you find that bullet?"

I leaned close and whispered, "It was in a skull near that house I told you about."

Dad's eyes got wide. "Like the person had been shot?"

I nodded.

"There you two are," Mom's voice called out from across the parking lot, startling us both. "The Jacksons want us to join them for lunch at The Grill on the Hill. I told them we'd be happy to."

Dad smiled and called back. "Sounds wonderful, honey. That way we don't need to cook." He took my arm and said softly. "Just go along with it, Mandy girl. Your mother will be much happier if she has people to talk to." We walked over to join Mom and her new friends.

The Sting

Evening September 6th
A red hot needle stuck into my arm. That's what it felt like when the wasp stung me this afternoon. I was sitting in the porch swing reading a book for school and I felt this sudden burning pain. I went into the house and luckily I found Dad in the kitchen, making himself a snack.

"Something stung me," I said.

Dad looked at my arm and nodded. "More than likely a mud dauber. No stinger, though. It must have just bit you instead of stinging."

"What's a mud dauber?" I asked. "Are they poisonous?"

"A kind of wasp. They get their name because they build their nests out of mud." Dad pulled the orange box of baking soda out of the cabinet and put a spoonful in a tea cup. He spit into the cup a few times then stirred. He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and broke one open into the paste.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Tobacco'll help draw the venom out of it." He spread the ugly paste onto the bite and tied a dishtowel around it. "Keep this on it for three or four hours."

I sat down at the table. "How long before the pain goes away."

"It'll take a few minutes to start working. Want something to drink?"

"Just water." I was feeling a little queasy.

By the time Dad set the water in front of me, the pain had dulled some. "I think it's working."

"Good." He sat across the table from me and started eating his sandwich.

"How did you know about the paste?" I asked.

"Believe me, I had my fair share of wasp stings and every other kind of sting when I was growing up."

Just then Mom came in the room. She looked angry and nervous at the same time. She put the bullet I'd pulled from the woman's skull in the center of the table. "Either of you care to explain where this came from?"

Dad picked it up and examined it. "Never seen it before in my life."

"It's mine," I confessed. "I found it and put it in my pocket."

"Where did you find it?" Mom asked. "You've been at that house again, haven't you? I told you terrorists used to live there."

"You know how many bullets there probably are in those woods, Julie? Remember, people used to hunt here back before they built the safety net."

"Don't you cover for her. Amanda, where did you get this?"

"Dad's right. I just found it in the woods." I hoped she wouldn't be able to tell I was lying. I think it worked because the next thing she noticed was the dishtowel around my arm.

"What did you do to your arm?"

"Wasp sting," I said. "Dad took care of it."

"It doesn't hurt anymore, does it?" he asked.

"Not a bit," I said.

"A little baking soda and tobacco does the trick every time," Dad smiled.
Mom just rolled her eyes.

A Look and a Smile

Saturday, September 6th

I didn’t get a chance to write anything yesterday because I stayed at Kylie’s house. It was pretty uneventful, like she had promised. Her parents were nice enough, but kind of boring. Her mother mostly just smiled and talked about how glad she was that Kylie had a new friend. Her father ate dinner in silence and then went to his bedroom. Kylie’s parents sleep in different rooms, which I find odd. Kylie says it’s because her father snores and has to inhale medicine all night. The medicine isn’t good for babies, so her mother sleeps in the room they plan to make into the nursery.

I asked Kylie if he was still upset about the baby. She just shrugged and said he never really talks to her. When I told her how much me and my dad talk, she couldn’t believe it. Anyway, after dinner we went to her room. Her mother had brought home some makeup they were experimenting with at the pharmacy. It’s supposed to clear up acne. I don’t really have too much of a problem with zits. I mean I get them now and then like anyone does, but Kylie has them pretty bad. So we made each other up and then we went to the Grill on the Hill for a milkshake. Some guy I’d never seen before kept looking over at us. I asked Kylie if she knew him and she said, “That’s Adam Tucker. He’s home schooled.” She leaned over across the table to whisper. “They say his parents used to be terrorists. And they might still be.”

I started to say I’d met Mr. Tucker and didn’t think he was too dangerous, but I didn’t want Kylie to drop me as a friend so I said nothing. But I did give Adam Tucker a smile when I left. He looked lonely and, truthfully, he’s kind of cute in skinny, impish way. Hopefully Dad will make good on his promise and introduce me. Or maybe I’ll get brave and introduce myself if I run into him when I’m not with Kylie.

Zucchini Fritters

September 4th, after dinner

Dad came home from work alone tonight, carrying a canvas bag. My mother raised her eyebrows and asked “What do you have there?”

“Vegetables,” my Dad said. “Homegrown and healthy.”

My mother took a zucchini from the bag and swiped her finger across it. “Dirty. Where did you get it?”

“I bought it.”

“You spent good money on filthy vegetables?” She took the bag from him and put it in the garbage can. “I don’t eat dirt.”

Dad took the vegetables and put them in the sink. “You wash them first, like anything you buy.” He turned on the water as high as it would go and spoke above its torrential din. “But this way, all you’re washing off is dirt instead of God only knows what the government treats them with.”

“It’s not hygienic,” she yelled. “I won’t eat them and neither will Amanda.”

“I’ll eat them,” I spoke up. I’m not usually too fond of vegetables, but I liked the idea of eating something a person had grown and wondered if maybe the vegetables would taste different.

“You don’t even like vegetables,” my mother scolded, her voice ending too loud because my father had turned off the water.

“I might like these.”

“Well I won’t cook them.”

“I’ll cook them.” Dad winked at me and pulled out the grater.

“What are you doing?” Mom asked.

“Something my Dad did. I’d almost forgotten.” He sliced the zucchini in big chunks and put it into the grater. Thin segments came out the other end. I watched as he mixed the segments with flour, egg, and water. He placed oil in a pan and came to sit across from me at the table. Mom busied herself making a fruit salad from store-bought fruit, flash frozen for freshness.

“I didn’t get a chance to come back last night,” he said. “Did the milk help?”

I nodded. “Did you buy the vegetables from Mr. Tucker?”

“Who else?” Dad asked. “I’m glad you’re willing to try them.”

“Can I talk to him again sometime?” I asked in a whisper.

“Sometime,” Dad said quietly. “He’s got a boy about your age, I think.”

“He has kids?” I asked.

“Six of them,” Dad said. “But I don’t want to let you mother know that just yet.”
I nodded.

“I’d better check the oil,” Dad said. He stood up and flicked a small bit of batter into the oil. I heard it sizzle. I watched as he dropped spoonfuls of zucchini-laced batter into the oil and brought out golden puffs. When they were finished, he put them on the table between Mom’s fruit salad and the roasted chicken she’d bought from the deli.

I lifted a golden fritter to my mouth and took a bite. I fanned my mouth with my hand and swallowed. “Good, but hot.”

“Your granddad’s zucchini fritters were better,” Dad said. “But give me a chance. By the time we grow our own zucchini next year, mine will be even better.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mother scowling.

A Bit of Sweetness

September 4th

Dad wasn’t too surprised last night when I joined him in the kitchen. I tried to be calm, walk in, sit at the table and wait until he had finished cooking the milk. But when I saw him in his old flannel robe and slippers, standing in front of the stove, stirring slowly, gazing into the steam that was just starting to rise off the milk, I ran to him and wrapped my arms around him. I leaned my head against the soft spot right beneath his shoulder blade.

“I’m sorry we woke you up, Mandy girl,” he said softly.

“I don’t want to go back to the Addicted Cities, Daddy.” I blurted out my worst fears.

He turned around and held me against his chest. “You won’t have to, honey. Your mother’s just tense because of her pregnancy. It’ll pass.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“It will, don’t worry.” I could tell he was trying very hard to keep the worry from showing in his own voice.

“Does the warm milk really work?”

“It used to when I was a kid. Want to try some?”

“Yes.” I released my hold on him and sat down at the table.

He reached into the cupboard and brought down my hot chocolate mug. “Personally, I don’t like the taste much unless you add a little sugar and cinnamon. So let me know.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“What did you think about our guest?” Dad asked as he ladled milk into the three cups.

I shrugged. “He smelled kind of funky.”

“He smells the way your grandfather smelled back before we gave up the farm and moved to the city.” He had stopped dishing out the milk. “I miss that smell.”

“Want me to take a cup to Mom?”

“I’d better do it,” he said. “You go ahead and try yours. If you don’t like it, add some sugar and cinnamon until it tastes right.”

“Are you putting some in Mom’s?”

Dad reached for the sugar and paused. Then he put our cups on the table. “Why don’t we get ours right first and then I’ll take the sugar and cinnamon back to her so she can decide?”

I sipped the milk. It did taste kind of funny. I added a little sugar and cinnamon and tasted it again. It reminded me a little of the melted ice cream left after you finished your apple pie. “It’s good now.”

“OK. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll talk some more.” He put the two cups of milk, the sugar, and the cinnamon on a cookie sheet and walked back down the hall.

I sipped my milk and waited for him to return, but he never did. After I finished my milk, I went back to my own room. My mother’s sobs had stopped and I could hear my father snoring gently.

Warm Milk

Middle of the night, September 3rd

Mom and Dad are arguing and have been for the last half hour or so. I was sound asleep when the yelling started, but I know I won’t be able to get any more sleep tonight. I hope I can keep my eyes open in school tomorrow. I haven’t seen anyone doze off during class, but in my old school dozing off was a sure way to get sent to the nurse’s office and shot up with something.

Anyway, they are arguing about Mr. Tucker. The gist of the argument is that Mom thinks he’s a terrorist because he’s always lived outside the safety net. She accused Dad of endangering the life of her, me, and especially Providence. Dad said he’s not endangering any of our lives and that Mr. Tucker is just a nice old guy who happens to have a lot of experiences we can all learn from. Mom’s response was that she had no need to learn to make bombs or fire a gun, or any of the other things he might know because she, for one, has no intention of becoming a terrorist. Dad said that’s not the kind of stuff he meant. Mr. Tucker knows things about growing your own food and living off the land. Mom said she finds the food at the grocery store suitable for all her needs, so why would she want to grovel in the dirt to grow it? And now Mom’s threatening to report Dad to the police for associating with a terrorist. She says she’ll take me and go back to the safety net.

I won’t go with her, though. I like it here. I didn’t think I would at first, but I do. And I agree with Dad. Mr. Tucker just seems like a nice old guy.

Their screaming stopped and now Mom’s sobbing. When Dad reminded Mom that only one child was allowed to a couple in the safety net, she let out a scream like I’ve never heard before, not even in the movies. And then she started crying. I can hear Dad now, talking to her softly, asking her if she wants him to make her some warm milk.

“Why would I want warm milk?” she’s asking.

I hear Dad whispering, “It’s just something my mother would make us to calm us down when we had a nightmare.”

“Old wives tale,” she mutters. “I want my pills.”

“I threw them away,” Dad says softly. “For Providence.”

And now Mom is shrieking again. I hear Dad step out into the hallway. He closes their bedroom door behind him. Mom’s shrieks have dissolved again to sobs and I hear the clanking of pots and pans in the kitchen. I wonder if warm milk really works. I’m going to put on my robe and go out to the kitchen to see if Dad might be making enough for two.

The Visitor

Wednesday, September 3rd
I’m not the only one who made a new friend. Dad brought his friend home to dinner tonight. Mr. Tucker is his name and he’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. He has thin grey hair that stands up in strange angles. His face is reddish brown with deep lines and I didn’t touch it, but it looks rough. I did touch his hand when he extended it to shake. It was like touching the bark of a tree. He smelled strange too, musty like the old house and sweet smelling too. After he left, Mom said he smelled like a brewery. But the strangest thing about him is that he’s never even been inside the safety net.

Mom wasn’t too happy when Dad walked in and said we were having a guest for dinner. She muttered something about giving her some notice and that all we were having were leftovers anyway. Dad said it didn’t matter, that Mr. Tucker wasn’t picky. And it seemed that Dad was right. Mr. Tucker ate every bit on his plate.

He didn’t say much during dinner. And after dinner he and Dad went outside and walked. I stood up to go along too, but Dad waved me back. “Mr. Tucker and I have things to talk about, Mandy girl. How about if we go for a walk tomorrow night?”
“Sure,” I said, but I was disappointed. I wanted to learn more about Mr. Tucker. If he’d never been inside the safety net, he might know what had happened to the writer.

Varnish

Tuesday, September 2nd
The two boys who passed out yesterday were not in class today. Our homeroom teacher told us they suspected the boys had inhaled too much varnish in wood shop and that they had been sent to a hospital within the safety net until they recovered. Kylie invited me to sleep at her house Friday night. I told her I’d have to ask my parents. I’d like to spend time with her, but I can’t get the image of her father cracking the lobster claws, his face red and swollen with anger, out of my head.

After dinner
Wouldn’t you know it? Mom and Dad see nothing wrong with me going to Kylie’s house Friday night. They think it’s great I made a friend so fast. Now I just have to convince myself.

Guns and Bullets

After dinner we sat together as a family and watched a cowboy from a world I’d never known saunter into town, a gun slung low across each hipbone. I thought about the bullet I had wriggled from the woman’s skull. Had she been shot by a gunslinger, black hat pulled low over his eyes? USG4 2014 had been the marking on the bullet. Was it an identification number like the ones tattooed on each baby at birth? Could it be used to track the bullet to its owner?

There are no cowboys now. Maybe they’d never lived. And only police and soldiers are issued guns, guns they must return when their term of service ends.

“Dad, have you ever owned a gun?” I whispered.

“Shhhh.” Mom said.

I waited for the public service announcement and asked again.

Dad leaned over and spoke quietly. “I had a BB gun when I was a boy and my father and brother had hunting rifles. I shot my brother’s a few times -- just at targets. I was supposed to get my own the year they banned them.”

“What happened to the guns?”

“We had to turn them in when we moved to the safety net. That was one of the toughest things for your grandfather. Some of those guns had belonged to my grandfather. He hadn’t shot most of them in years, just kept them in a closet and run his hand over them now and then, remembering how Grandpa Bard had run his own hand down the barrel, keeping the gun polished and ready at all times.”

“Did the bullets have numbers on them?”

“I never noticed. Why do you ask?”

“Shhh.” Mom said. The show was back on.

“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered and turned my attention to the show.

By the time the show was over, Dad had fallen asleep in his chair. I kissed his forehead, gave Mom a gentle hug and went to bed.

All that happened yesterday. I’m writing about it now because I decided to keep my own journal and write down anything that might help someone reconstruct my own past someday. Maybe whoever finds my journal will be smart enough to figure out why two of my classmates just turned blue and dropped right in the middle of class. I don’t know if they’re dead or not. They quarantined the rest of us to the gym as soon as it happened. So that’s where I sit now, starting a journal in a notebook bought for writing notes in Algebra. I can always buy another notebook if I need one. So far everything has been review.

Trying out Names

When I got to my room, I was relieved to find the journal sitting on my desk next to my schoolbooks. I hoped Dad had found it, not Mom, but there was no changing it either way. At least I had it. I placed it carefully in my bottom desk drawer. I put on jeans and a t-shirt and left my room, closing the door tight behind me. By the time I got to the kitchen, Mom had already put dinner on the table.

“Did you get them all?” Dad asked.

“I hope so.” I sat in my usual chair and scooped au gratin potatoes onto my plate. Mom scowled as I picked up a crusty chicken breast with my hands the way I always did. I held up my hands.

“They’re clean. I just took a bath, remember?”

“You’re old enough to use a fork.”

“It’s fried chicken, Mom. Finger-lickin’ good.”

Mom just shook her head. I could see Dad grinning as he picked up a drumstick and took a bite.

“You two,” Mom sighed.

“Peas in a pod,” Dad said.

Mom rubbed her hand across the slight bulge just below her narrow waist. “Don’t listen to them, Providence. We don’t want you learning their bad manners.”

“Providence?” I asked.

“I know. It’s a little old fashioned, but your father picked it out.” Mom put her hand over Dad’s.

I looked over at Dad.

He nodded and grinned. “Nothing wrong with being old fashioned.”

“What if it’s a boy?” I asked.

Dad shrugged. “Then I guess we’ll change the name to Chance.”

“Or Fortune,” Mom said. “Because very few people in this world are fortunate enough to have a second child.”

“Fortune Bard?” I asked. “Think of the poor child’s future.”

Dad laughed. “You have a point, Mandy girl. Good thing we have some time to try out names.”

Running Scared

After finding the bullet in the woman’s skull, I clutched her journal against my chest and started running through the forest, trying to ignore the laughter of the crow I knew still followed me. My intention was to show the journal to my father, to take him to the house, to show him the skull, to ask him to tell me what had happened in the years before I was born, the years no one really talked about. But by the time I got to the house a million brown freckles crawled over my legs. My mother was the first to see them.

“Luke!” she called out. “Amanda’s legs! Look at Amanda’s legs!”

“Did you get into the chiggerweed again?” Dad looked up from the book he was reading.

I looked down and saw a swarm of moving dots. “Oh God, they’re bigger now.” I started brushing the dots off my legs.

“Don’t brush them on the floor!” My mother cried. “What if we all get them?”

By this time Dad had kneeled beside me and was helping me brush off my legs. “Bleach’ll kill them.”

Mom disappeared.

“Are they chiggers?” I asked. Now the tops of my legs were crawling too.

“Seed ticks,” Dad said. “They’ll itch, but they won’t blister like chiggers.”

“They’re everywhere,” I said.

“You’d better go take a bath.” Dad turned to Mom, who was pouring bleach into a steaming mop bucket. “Give her a cup of the bleach Julie.”

My mother and I both stopped what we were doing and stared at him. “Bleach?” we asked in unison.

Dad handed a measuring cup to Mom. “Put a cup of bleach in your bathwater. That’ll take care of them.”

“Use the old towels, not the new dark blue ones,” Mom said.

The tickling crawling feeling was everywhere now. I took the cup of bleach and hurried to the bathroom. I was soaking in the tub before I realized I no longer held the journal.