shed.
Something scraped against the wall outside. He bent down and peered out the four-paned window, rubbing where his breath fogged the glass. A small face stared back at him. It vanished almost as soon as he saw it.
âRichie!â Thomas yelled. âDamn it, come back here!â
Some of it seemed to fall in place as Thomas ran outside with his go-aheads and raincoat on. The boy didnât have a home to go to when he left their house. He slept someplace else, in the woods perhaps, and scavenged what he could. But now he was in the rain and soaked and in danger of becoming very ill unless Thomas caught up with him. A flash of lightning brought grass and shore into bright relief and he saw the boy running south across the sand, faster than seemed possible for a boy his age. Thomas ran after with the rain slapping him in the face.
He was halfway toward the Thompson house when the lightning flashes decreased and he couldnât follow the boyâs trail. It was pitch black but for the lights coming from their cabin. The Thompson house, of course, was dark.
Thomas was soaked through and rain ran down his neck in a steady stream. Sand itched his feet and burrs from the grass caught in his cuffs, pricking his ankles.
A close flash printed the Thompsonsâ shed in silver against the dark. Thunder roared and grumbled down the beach.
That was it, that was where Richie stayed. He had fled to the woods only after the first storm had knocked the structure down.
He lurched through the wind-slanted strikes of water until he stood by the shed door. He fumbled at the catch and found a lock. He tugged at it and the whole thing slid free. The screws had been pried loose. âRichie,â he said, opening the door. âCome on. Itâs Tom.â
The shed waited dry and silent. âYou should come home with me, stay with us.â No answer. He opened the door wide and lightning showed him rags scattered everywhere, rising to a shape that looked like a man lying on his back with a blank face turned to Thomas. He jumped, but it was only a lump of rags. The boy didnât seem to be there. He started to close the door when he saw two pale points of light dance in the dark like fireflies. His heart froze and his back tingled. Again the lightning threw its dazzling sheets of light and wrapped the inside of the shed in cold whiteness and inky shadow.
Richie stood at the back, staring at Thomas with a slack expression.
The dark closed again and the boy said, âTom, could you take me someplace warm?â
âSure,â Tom said, relaxing. âCome here.â He took the boy into his arms and bundled him under the raincoat. There was something lumpy on Richieâs back, under his sopping t-shirt. Thomasâs hand drew back by reflex. Richie shied away just as quickly and Thomas thought, Heâs got a hunch or scar, heâs embarrassed about it .
Lurching against each other as they walked to the house, Thomas asked himself why heâd been scared by what he first saw in the shed. A pile of rags. âMy nerves are shot,â he told Richie. The boy said nothing.
In the house he put Richie under a warm showerâthe boy seemed unfamiliar with bathtubs and shower headsâand put an old Mackinaw out for the boy to wear. Thomas brought a cot and sleeping bag from the garage into the living room. Richie slipped on the Mackinaw, buttoning it with a curious crabwise flick of right hand over left, and climbed into the down bag, falling asleep almost immediately.
Karen came home an hour later, tired and wet. Thomas pointed to the cot with his finger at his lips. She looked at it, mouth open in surprise, and nodded.
In their bedroom, before fatigue and the patter of rain lulled them into sleep, Karen told him the Thompsons were nice people. âSheâs a little old and crotchety, but heâs a bright old coot. He said something strange, though. Said when the shed fell down during the last
Something scraped against the wall outside. He bent down and peered out the four-paned window, rubbing where his breath fogged the glass. A small face stared back at him. It vanished almost as soon as he saw it.
âRichie!â Thomas yelled. âDamn it, come back here!â
Some of it seemed to fall in place as Thomas ran outside with his go-aheads and raincoat on. The boy didnât have a home to go to when he left their house. He slept someplace else, in the woods perhaps, and scavenged what he could. But now he was in the rain and soaked and in danger of becoming very ill unless Thomas caught up with him. A flash of lightning brought grass and shore into bright relief and he saw the boy running south across the sand, faster than seemed possible for a boy his age. Thomas ran after with the rain slapping him in the face.
He was halfway toward the Thompson house when the lightning flashes decreased and he couldnât follow the boyâs trail. It was pitch black but for the lights coming from their cabin. The Thompson house, of course, was dark.
Thomas was soaked through and rain ran down his neck in a steady stream. Sand itched his feet and burrs from the grass caught in his cuffs, pricking his ankles.
A close flash printed the Thompsonsâ shed in silver against the dark. Thunder roared and grumbled down the beach.
That was it, that was where Richie stayed. He had fled to the woods only after the first storm had knocked the structure down.
He lurched through the wind-slanted strikes of water until he stood by the shed door. He fumbled at the catch and found a lock. He tugged at it and the whole thing slid free. The screws had been pried loose. âRichie,â he said, opening the door. âCome on. Itâs Tom.â
The shed waited dry and silent. âYou should come home with me, stay with us.â No answer. He opened the door wide and lightning showed him rags scattered everywhere, rising to a shape that looked like a man lying on his back with a blank face turned to Thomas. He jumped, but it was only a lump of rags. The boy didnât seem to be there. He started to close the door when he saw two pale points of light dance in the dark like fireflies. His heart froze and his back tingled. Again the lightning threw its dazzling sheets of light and wrapped the inside of the shed in cold whiteness and inky shadow.
Richie stood at the back, staring at Thomas with a slack expression.
The dark closed again and the boy said, âTom, could you take me someplace warm?â
âSure,â Tom said, relaxing. âCome here.â He took the boy into his arms and bundled him under the raincoat. There was something lumpy on Richieâs back, under his sopping t-shirt. Thomasâs hand drew back by reflex. Richie shied away just as quickly and Thomas thought, Heâs got a hunch or scar, heâs embarrassed about it .
Lurching against each other as they walked to the house, Thomas asked himself why heâd been scared by what he first saw in the shed. A pile of rags. âMy nerves are shot,â he told Richie. The boy said nothing.
In the house he put Richie under a warm showerâthe boy seemed unfamiliar with bathtubs and shower headsâand put an old Mackinaw out for the boy to wear. Thomas brought a cot and sleeping bag from the garage into the living room. Richie slipped on the Mackinaw, buttoning it with a curious crabwise flick of right hand over left, and climbed into the down bag, falling asleep almost immediately.
Karen came home an hour later, tired and wet. Thomas pointed to the cot with his finger at his lips. She looked at it, mouth open in surprise, and nodded.
In their bedroom, before fatigue and the patter of rain lulled them into sleep, Karen told him the Thompsons were nice people. âSheâs a little old and crotchety, but heâs a bright old coot. He said something strange, though. Said when the shed fell down during the last
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