Page 43 of The Broken Places

The house came into sight first, a two-story farmhouse with peeling white paint and a dilapidated porch, sitting in front of a mournful mountain that rose into the sky. He saw the old tractor sitting in the field, its seat empty. The pewter sky yawned wide, stirring up the wind that blew the tall grass so that it bent sideways and stayed that way.

Where is he?

Where is who?

My grandfather.

I don’t know.

Where are you?

Where am I?

The boy darted out from behind the tractor, running through the field. Running toward the small shed at the back of the property that throbbed with darkness and despair.

I’m there. I’m inside that shed.

Show me.

Jett didn’t want to show his guide what was in that shed, but his feet moved anyway, the soft, gentle rustling of his dove’s wings luring him along.

Again, his legs felt leaden, his steps so heavy each one made his muscles ache. A goat ran up to the fence on his right, sticking its small nose through the rails. Grief trembled. Fear. Sorrow. He recognized that goat. It was the one his grandfather had butchered because he’d stupidly shown a fondness for it.I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

The goat made a sound and then turned and ran away, leaping and twisting, the way happy goats do.

Suddenly, the field was behind him, and he stood at the door to the small building, staring at the rough grain of the wood. The moan of the wind melded with his own, and despite his fear, despite the sick roiling of his guts, he reached for the door and pushed. It squeaked on its rusted hinges, opening slowly, the light trickling in to join that which filtered through the one dusty window covered in cobwebs.

His eyes tracked slowly over the contents of the shed, moving from the space beside the door toward the back. A three-wheeled wagon, a pile of scrap wood, four broken pots, one with faded yellow daisies on it. He wondered who’d chosen that pot when it was new, sitting on a store shelf.My grandmother?Did she think it pretty? Did it make her smile? Did she know what that pot would come to see when it was a broken heap of shards on a dirt floor in an old shed?

That wind again, moaning, shaking the drafty walls of the shed so that Jett wondered if it might blow over. It should. It had no right to stand.

His dove was on his shoulder again, caressing his cheek with her wing, cooing and humming, her voice so sweet. He raised his eyes from those broken pots and looked into the dim corner at the back.

There I am. I’m alone.

Snowflakes hit his cheeks, and he didn’t know when it had started snowing, but he was shaking from the cold.

He was there, and he was here, both in that dark corner curled into a ball and standing at the door.

There you are. But you’re not alone.

He gasped, his teeth chattering. “I’m not alone now, but I was ... then. He put me here. He left me in the cold.”

Why did he put you here alone?his guide asked.

To punish me.He walked toward the child, curled up on a burlap sack against the back wall. He stood over him, looking down. He felt his tremors, and his misery. His deep shame. He felt his utter aloneness.To make me suffer.

What does he need?

A blanket. Some food.

Let’s get him some, and then you can tell me more.

Where do I get a blanket or some food? I’m helpless.

You’re no such thing. And you have me. Just ask and I’ll provide.

She was gone for a blink, and by the time Jett went down on his knees next to the small child that was him, his dove was back with a blanket and a warm piece of buttered toast.

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