Page 3 of Barbed Wire Fences
“Jael in the Bible ended a war by driving a tent peg through a general’s head while he was asleep in her tent,” she says casually, shrugging one shoulder.
My jaw drops open at the casualness of the gruesome story she just told and the wild woman that she was named after. “A tent peg?” I’m definitely looking this story up later tonight.
“So, this place is called Whitewood Creek, but there’s a lake back there.” She points with her thumb towards the back of the trailer park. “Want to go check it out?”
“Your mom won’t notice if you leave?”
She gives me a sad little smile and starts walking like that’s the dumbest thing I could’ve asked. And judging by what I’ve seen so far, she’s probably right.
I grab my bike and follow her down the road.
Chapter 2 – Jael
“I’m starving,” I groan as I flop down on the faded, green and black checkered couch in Rhett’s trailer.
It smells like the candles and the incense that his mom always has burning, mixed with coconut. I used to think it was way too strong of a combination, but after spending most of my summer with Rhett and his mom, it’s just… familiar now. The kind of smell that calms me and makes me feel safe.
Which is the total opposite of how I ever feel in the trailer where I live with my parents.
“Well, don’t come over here and eat all my snacks,” he snaps back at me.
I roll my eyes. “Your mom said that I can have one of whatever you’re having.”
Rhett sighs, crouching to rummage through the tiny cupboard under the sink that doubles as their pantry. After a couple seconds of searching, he pulls out two bags of off-brand cheese crackers labeledReally Cheese! Without looking, he tosses one my way.
We’ve long since decided that these snacks contain absolutely zero actual cheese. The name is clearly just some kind of desperate marketing ploy.“Trust us! It’s Really cheese in here!”
I grumble under my breath as I tear the bag open. These are, hands-down, my least favorite of the Millers’ snack stash, but I’m hungry enough not to care too much. I shove handfuls into my mouth and crunch my way through the whole bag as fast as possible, figuring the sooner they’re gone, the quicker the dull, ache of hunger in my stomach will disappear.
When I finish, I lick the questionable cheese dust from my fingers and sigh. “I’m still hungry.”
Rhett raises an eyebrow at me. “Damn. Doesn’t Meredith feed you?”
The teasing question stings more than he probably realizes. I wince, trying to hide it on my face, but the reality is hard to ignore: my mom can barely scrape together enough to keep us in that run-down trailer. What little money she manages to make either disappears in my dad’s losing bets or gets swallowed by his all-day alcohol addiction. Most nights, dinner is more of an idea than an actual event. I typically go to bed hungry, eager to eat the free lunch that our public school offers in the morning.
Rhett notices my reaction and sighs, running a hand through his short, brown hair. “Look, I get it,” he says, softer now. “But our snack options are limited, and my mom’s got a freakishly good memory for pantry inventory. I swear she counts the cans every night before bed. She’s like the soup kitchen Gestapo or something. If I eat more than my share, she’s on me in two seconds flat and then we’ll both get in trouble.”
I laugh. “So, what, we just starve?”
“Nah,” he says, his grin returning. “There’s a couple of old fruit trees by that abandoned church about a mile from here—cherry and mulberry, I think. They’re just sitting there, waiting for us to pick. Want to take a walk and grab some free food?”
I nod eagerly. A trek for fresh fruit beats sitting around hungry any day.
???
Ten minutes later, we’re trudging through a cornfield, the towering stalks rustling around us as we approach the old church. It looks exactly how I remembered it from when we biked past it last: a crumbling relic with boarded-up windows and doors, its’ peeling white paint almost completely worn away.
There’s a fadedNO TRESPASSINGsign nailed crookedly to the front, as if whoever put it up knew it wasn’t going to scare anyone away from exploring.
To the left of the church, an overgrown graveyard stretches out, the headstones so old and weathered that most of the names and dates are unreadable now. To the right is a wide, empty field where two gnarled trees standalone, their branches heavy with dark, ripe fruit. My mouth waters as soon as I spot them.
Rhett glances around, squinting at the gravel road that connects the church property back to the rest of Whitewood Creek. “We gotta be quick. No idea if anyone’s gonna drive by.”
I hesitate. “So, we’re technically trespassing?”
He shrugs, shooting me a crooked grin. “Probably. But come on, it’s achurch. Helping a couple hungry charity cases like usis basically their whole mission, right? We’re just taking what’s owed to us.”
I roll my eyes but follow him as he crosses the field to the first tree. He jumps, grabs a low-hanging branch, and hoists himself up with complete confidence that the thing isn’t going to snap off. Luckily, he’s right.
