he finished covering every bit of exposed skin, he lay back and closed his eyes.
The sensation was gentle at first—a faint warm tingling that felt like someone gently stroking a feather against the hair of his leg. But as the seconds passed, the heat got more and more intense, until after a few minutes it felt likea battalion of fire ants was assaulting his skin in steady, vicious waves. Nick clutched the blanket under him, his fingers so tight that every muscle in his arm ached.
“Dad!” he shouted, even though he knew his father wasn’t home.
Silence. The fire ants had now doused themselves in gasoline and lit a match. Nick opened his eyes and glanced down at his bad leg. It was bright red. He started to count backward from ten, promising himself that he would feel better by the time he reached zero. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .
“Aaaahhhh!” Nick was in so much pain that he wasn’t sure he was the one yelling as he leaped out of bed and dashed toward the door of the cabin. He burst outside and half fell down the stairs before grabbing the handle of the water pump with both hands. He furiously moved it up and down, his leg stuck forward toward the spigot, and as the first gush of cool water hit his skin, Nick groaned aloud in sweet relief. As he kept pumping, his skin separated into little puddles of hot and cold. It was an indescribably strange sensation. And then, just as the fire abated enough that Nick could focus on anything other than his leg, he heard a loud laugh behind him.
“What the heck are you doing?” a female voice asked.
Nick slowly turned around. Emma was standing in the middle of the yard, her arms folded across her chest and a broad smile on her face.
“I’d tell you what I was doing,” Nick said, “but it would sound pretty stupid.”
Emma giggled. “It can’t be any more stupid than what I’m imagining.”
Nick looked down and suddenly flushed as he realized that he was wearing just his underwear and a T-shirt. His bad leg was also so red and splotchy that it looked like it was covered in wet paint.
“Satch gave me some medicine,” Nick said sheepishly. “It was supposed to make my leg better, but it just burned like hot coals.”
“Are you sure it didn’t work?” Nick gave Emma a wary glance, not sure if she was kidding. “I mean, you got all the way out here without your brace, didn’t you?”
A long moment passed and then Nick’s mouth fell open. She was right. He had run all the way from the cabin to the pump, and now he was standing in the middle of the yard without his brace as if it was normal.
“You’re right,” he said. “I guess I did.”
Emma smiled one more time. “Well, maybe you should try that stuff again. Except next time you should probably wear some pants.”
Nick’s father got back to the cabin in the early evening, and as he strode inside, he glanced at Nick.
“Put on your Sunday best,” he said gruffly. “Mr. Churchill needs us downtown.”
Nick pulled the battered trunk out from under his cot and rummaged around until he found his old pair of dark pants, collared shirt, and leather shoes. He and his father had bought them for his mother’s funeral, and at the time they had been a few sizes too big so Nick could grow into them. But that had been a long time ago, and the pants and shirt now clung to his body as if they were trying to strangle him, and the shoes pinched his toes like pliers. When Nick stood up and attempted to button his pants—a hopeless effort—his father looked at him and shook his head.
“Those are what your grandma used to call high-water pants,” he said.
“Why?” Nick asked.
“Because you could wade across a stream without having to roll them up.” He glanced at Nick’s bad leg and then at the bed, where the brace was lying next to the pillow. “Why aren’t you wearing your machinery?”
“I walked without it,” Nick said. “Today in the yard.”
“Don’t be a fool. You
The sensation was gentle at first—a faint warm tingling that felt like someone gently stroking a feather against the hair of his leg. But as the seconds passed, the heat got more and more intense, until after a few minutes it felt likea battalion of fire ants was assaulting his skin in steady, vicious waves. Nick clutched the blanket under him, his fingers so tight that every muscle in his arm ached.
“Dad!” he shouted, even though he knew his father wasn’t home.
Silence. The fire ants had now doused themselves in gasoline and lit a match. Nick opened his eyes and glanced down at his bad leg. It was bright red. He started to count backward from ten, promising himself that he would feel better by the time he reached zero. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .
“Aaaahhhh!” Nick was in so much pain that he wasn’t sure he was the one yelling as he leaped out of bed and dashed toward the door of the cabin. He burst outside and half fell down the stairs before grabbing the handle of the water pump with both hands. He furiously moved it up and down, his leg stuck forward toward the spigot, and as the first gush of cool water hit his skin, Nick groaned aloud in sweet relief. As he kept pumping, his skin separated into little puddles of hot and cold. It was an indescribably strange sensation. And then, just as the fire abated enough that Nick could focus on anything other than his leg, he heard a loud laugh behind him.
“What the heck are you doing?” a female voice asked.
Nick slowly turned around. Emma was standing in the middle of the yard, her arms folded across her chest and a broad smile on her face.
“I’d tell you what I was doing,” Nick said, “but it would sound pretty stupid.”
Emma giggled. “It can’t be any more stupid than what I’m imagining.”
Nick looked down and suddenly flushed as he realized that he was wearing just his underwear and a T-shirt. His bad leg was also so red and splotchy that it looked like it was covered in wet paint.
“Satch gave me some medicine,” Nick said sheepishly. “It was supposed to make my leg better, but it just burned like hot coals.”
“Are you sure it didn’t work?” Nick gave Emma a wary glance, not sure if she was kidding. “I mean, you got all the way out here without your brace, didn’t you?”
A long moment passed and then Nick’s mouth fell open. She was right. He had run all the way from the cabin to the pump, and now he was standing in the middle of the yard without his brace as if it was normal.
“You’re right,” he said. “I guess I did.”
Emma smiled one more time. “Well, maybe you should try that stuff again. Except next time you should probably wear some pants.”
Nick’s father got back to the cabin in the early evening, and as he strode inside, he glanced at Nick.
“Put on your Sunday best,” he said gruffly. “Mr. Churchill needs us downtown.”
Nick pulled the battered trunk out from under his cot and rummaged around until he found his old pair of dark pants, collared shirt, and leather shoes. He and his father had bought them for his mother’s funeral, and at the time they had been a few sizes too big so Nick could grow into them. But that had been a long time ago, and the pants and shirt now clung to his body as if they were trying to strangle him, and the shoes pinched his toes like pliers. When Nick stood up and attempted to button his pants—a hopeless effort—his father looked at him and shook his head.
“Those are what your grandma used to call high-water pants,” he said.
“Why?” Nick asked.
“Because you could wade across a stream without having to roll them up.” He glanced at Nick’s bad leg and then at the bed, where the brace was lying next to the pillow. “Why aren’t you wearing your machinery?”
“I walked without it,” Nick said. “Today in the yard.”
“Don’t be a fool. You
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