The Onion Van was parked adjacent to a road leading deep into the forest, quite possibly the very primrose path that carries people to places miles from where anyone can hear them scream.
“Hello,” the very small girl whispered to the pup as she settled into her seat. “My name is Tillie. Your name is Levi, and you are mine.”
I couldn’t drop this in Sawyer’s lap. He couldn’t know there was any more trouble than driving into town when the well ran dry.
That summer, the brilliant bursts of muzzle flash replaced the on off, on off, on off of fireflies. With our fingers in our ears, it was beautiful in the dark.
When the trees opened into a vast meadow of tall flowering grasses, the path narrowed even further. I spent a few moments gauging everyday items that were wider than this walkway; my dog, my laptop, a submarine sandwich placed sideways, a yoga mat, most table games except for Uno, and me.
The boy held two fingers sideways, squinting toward the horizon. “Thirty minutes,” he silently mouthed to himself, dropping his hand.
You’re sure there are two children. You didn’t count them, but any more than two and you cannot take them all. Two. Please let there be two.
what’s your name
where are you going
do you need a ride
Best of all, I held empty glass globes that could be coaxed into illumination, and they would shine with nocturnal luminance as though they were the effortless, miniature twins of the sun.