Read Online The Ghost Runner by Blair Richmond - Free Book Online Page A

not the one in charge. After all, the forest is literally his lifeblood, and here’s some former logger, a killer of trees, leading him on a hike. And now Dad is splitting us off from the more heavily traveled Moss Reservoir trail onto a smaller path I’ve never encountered.
    I’m not disappointed to leave the Moss Reservoir trail, which Alex and I jog on from time to time—a gentle, sloping gravel road five miles to the main reservoir that supplies Lithia. It made me sad and a little worried the last time we went to the reservoir, two weeks ago, when Alex told me the waterline had never been so low. Coming from Texas, I know all about conserving water: keeping the water off as I brush my teeth, reusing the shower water on the plants, never wasting a drop. But in Houston I never saw the main water supply. I never really thought about where the water came from. Here, the town relies on Lithia Creek and only Lithia Creek. If the creek runs light, the reservoir doesn’t fill up, and the town goes into water conservation mode—like now.
    But while I’m excited to try a new trail, Alex seems surprised when Dad pushes aside some bushes to reveal the remnants of an old path.
    â€œC’mon,” Dad says. “Follow me.”
    â€œYou sure, Mr. Healy?”
    â€œOf course. I used to take this trail in the old days.”
    â€œThere’s a lot of poison oak on this path.”
    â€œSo? Our legs are covered,” Dad says. “Just be careful what bushes you push out of the way.” He laughs and plunges into the brush. I look at Alex, whose brow is bunched up in worry lines.
    â€œIt’s okay, Alex,” I say. “Dad knows the forest.”
    We continue, climbing a steep hill. Soon the brush clears so that Alex and I can walk side by side, covered by the shade of soaring pine trees.
    â€œWhere are we headed?” I call ahead to my father.
    â€œYou’ll see,” Dad says. “It’s right up here.”
    The ground turns to rocks, and soon we come upon a cluster of large boulders. I follow Dad; we climb over them slowly. Dad extends a hand and pulls me up onto a large rock. I turn to watch Alex, who climbs up easily.
    â€œHere we are,” Dad says.
    I turn and realize that the boulders have taken us above the tree line. We have an unobstructed view of Moss Reservoir and the top of Mount Lithia. Early in the summer I’d gotten into the habit of glancing up at the mountain and watching as the snow melted away. Today, the peak of the mountain has no white at all.
    â€œThe snow is gone,” I say.
    â€œDo you remember it?” Dad asks.
    â€œRemember what?” I ask.
    â€œThis overlook. Your mother and I brought you here when you were a kid. She loved coming up here. You both did.”
    I stare across the valley below, at the trees and the still water of the reservoir. Two hawks catch my eye, and I watch them glide on the thermal currents, like two dancers circling each other. I try to remember coming up here, but being out with the two of them had happened mostly when I was very young, so my memories are vague. I remember my dad picking at the ground with a sharp hammer—looking for gold, he used to say. He turned it into a game, and I would help. I tended to pick up chunks of crystal because of the way they captured the light, and then Dad would inspect them for gold locked within. Back then, the crystal seemed far more precious to me than any rocks that might’ve contained gold; those were dull and drab by comparison. Maybe this was where my mother’s serpentine had come from. I put my hand to my neck, where her necklace rests just below my collarbone. I’ve worn it every day since my father gave it to me. Because of her, not him.
    â€œI wish I could remember more about Mom,” I say.
    â€œWell, I’m here to fill in the blanks,” he says.
    I reach for Alex’s hand and give it a tight squeeze, but he