Page 2 of Catching Camila

They'll hurt you, it shouted. Don't trust them.

So, he stayed hidden under a prickly bush, miserable.

By noon, his stomach seized and cramped. Creeping through the woods to the tree line, he stared desperately into the backyards.

Ahead, three children ran squealing through a sprinkler while their mother reclined in a lawn chair with a magazine. To his right, a wide green lawn led up to a large two-story house. A television flickered in the dark interior. Why weren’t these people at work? Feeling desperate, he stalked the shadows until he came to another house with a large wooden porch. The garage door was ajar. Inside the garage a big white refrigerator glowed like a lighthouse.

Food.

His stomach churned. Did he dare?

John scanned left, then right. The children and their mother had run inside for a potty break, leaving the littlest—a toddler with damp, yellow curls—on the lawn. As he watched, she tripped on the hose and skidded into the grass. She sucked in a breath and wailed.

Her mother would be back in seconds. The only time was now.

John sucked in a deep breath and sprinted toward the refrigerator.

Glancing left, he saw the little girl was turned away. To his right, the green lawns stretched, empty of people. He skidded to a stop at the doorframe, gripped it, and peered in. The dim garage was silent except for the electric hum of the refrigerator. Food, food, it hummed.

He slipped inside, the cement cool under his bare feet. A shiny black SUV took up the whole left side. His eyes raked over the tool bench and the pegboard covered in hammers and wrenches. Wall shelves bulged with soccer balls, buckets, terracotta pots, and cans of paint. Two carpeted steps led up to the house. His eyes tracked to the gleaming white fridge and his stomach flip-flopped. He strode toward it.

Please, God, let there be something to eat.

He was five steps in when he heard movement inside the house. Whistling. Someone was headed his way.

John’s eyes flicked between the door and the fridge. Getting caught would be disastrous, but he needed food. When would he get another opportunity? He sprinted to the fridge and yanked it open. The door rattled wide, cold air rolling out at his bare legs. His eyes racked over rows of beer and pop cans. He grabbed a few sodas, but where was the food?

He shot a glance toward the house door. There had to be food just inside, rows and rows of it probably, but the cheerful, off-key whistling was still headed his way. If he went in, he'd have to fight for it. No matter how hungry he was, he didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Something caught his eye in the bottom drawer, a blurry brown package inside the crisper. He yanked it open, his heart pounding. A package of hot dogs! John nearly shouted for joy. With the package cradled to his chest, he turned.

The door between the house and the garage cracked open.

Heart thumping, John tore across the garage.

He nearly tumbled over a backpack at his feet. Fabric peeked out of the opening. Clothes.

Snatching the bag, he bolted out of the garage and into the yard. The dry grass pierced his feet as he tore over the lawn. He eyed the deep, shadowed woods. Only a few more steps until safety.

“Wook, Mama,” a little voice yelled behind him. “He naked!”

John shot a look over his shoulder. The little girl, wet curls clinging to her pink cheeks, was pointing at him. The mother gasped and dragged her daughter toward the house. Would she call the police? John sprinted into the woods, ignoring the stabs of sticks and branches.

Darkness, it turned out, was his friend.

About a mile away in a sun-dappled clearing, John skidded to a stop. Nestled between pines and maples, he put his hands to his knees and took gasping breaths. Slipping the backpack off, he pulled out the plump package of hot dogs, his mouth watering. He tore the package open with his teeth. Meat juice slid over his tongue. He sucked down eight dogs, barely stopping to chew.

Satisfied. Until the next time he needed to eat.

He pulled open the backpack and dug into the contents. Inside he found a white T-shirt with the words Made in Detroit circling a wrench-wielding worker. He pulled the T-shirt over his head. It was a tight fit, but the soft fabric stretching across his chest relaxed him. He fished out a pair of women’s shorts next: light blue and nylon. He pulled them on and looked down. He might be a sporty cross-dresser, but at least he wasn't naked. He dragged out a pair of women’s running shoes, but couldn’t pull them over his heels. Barefoot for now.

John stretched out on the carpet of pine needles and laced his fingers behind his head. Blue sky peeked between shifting patterns of green as the wind stirred the branches. The birds chirped to one another. John nestled back and soaked up the serenity. He watched a Chickadee hop into a nest with something clutched in her beak. Her babies peeped anxiously.

He'd proven today he could survive. He was healthy and strong. He had brains. And he would remember who he was. Wouldn't he?

He closed his eyes and pushed for a memory. Anything lurking behind the cobwebs in his brain.

Slowly, an image of a grassy field appeared in his mind’s eye. Excited for even a wisp of memory, he strained to see the blurry image. Something solid rose from the grass—large, concrete, and cylindrical, like a silo. Was he looking at a farm? Something from his childhood? He tried to push the vision outward, stretching it in his mind, but the vision fogged and died.

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