Okay, now what? How do I figure out where I am? Time for my left hand to do some exploring. Weird how I’m thinking about my left hand like it is a separate person from me, a friend I can rely on.
I reach out to touch the metal I felt before. It is a solid sheet, not far above my head. I trace a diamond-plate pattern with my fingertips. The farm has two tractors; both are smooth steel all over, except for the dirty roughness of the bucket. My tractor--accident theory is looking less likely.
A few inches later and the metal makes a right-angle turn away from me—and my hand hits the dirty shavings. Only my head is underneath this thing. Whatever it is, it protected me from being smothered to death.
Time to search my left side. Shavings. Manure. Hay. But then, close beside me, a pole of well-worn wood. I can feel the barely there ridges of grain in the oak. Pitchfork handle. This definitely feels like a pitchfork handle. I must be at the ranch. Where is there diamond-plate metal on the farm? I can’t remember.
My left hand keeps going. The tips of my fingers touch more metal. This is something different, though. It’s rough and flaky with rust. I slide my hand along the old steel. It has a soft curve. Like a bowl. But it’s weird. Like the bowl is sort of shaking. It makes no sense.
I reach out as far as I can, but lose contact with the metal. Searching higher, my fingers touch metal again. A little hook. Odd. Then a straightaway of more metal. Then another metal hook. Another straightaway. Another hook.
I run out of arm. I am small and don’t have much length of arm to work with. So I trace the hooks and the straightaways back to the thing that’s like a bowl.
This all feels familiar. Those metal hooks remind me of my dad tying down a tarp in the bed of his truck.
A truck.
I am in the bed of a truck!
Why am I in the bed of a truck?
I reach out again for the metal hooks. Something tickles my hand.
Wind.
Stretching as far as I can go, I feel it in earnest now—the wind buffeting the skin of my hand. The wind, hard and fast.
This truck is moving.
How can that be? How can I be in a moving truck?
I reach out again, to check if I’m hallucinating. No. It’s there; that biting, slapping wind is there. This truck is going fast. Then I feel the hum through my body. The hum in my ears isn’t just concussion. It’s a combination of engine and vibration. It’s metal movement.
The diamond-plated thing above me must be a truck-bed toolbox. My head is in the empty space beneath it, protecting me from the shavings, keeping me alive.
I know where I am now.
I’m in the bed of a fast-moving truck, covered in blood, buried in filth. My right arm might be broken. I can’t see.
Realization dawns, and I pull my hand in like I touched fire.
Fear slides into my belly as I wait.
Was I seen? Did someone see my hand?
The truck shift gears. It’s slowing down. Quickly.
Forty-Eight Years Ago
THE BOY SITS DOWN TO wait. Over the last hour he’s put away his toys, tidied the house, put a Swanson TV dinner in the oven. Coffee is ready to brew. Ate his peanut butter sandwich and wiped away the crumbs. Everything is perfect.
After a few minutes of sitting on the couch he digs into his Snoopy book bag. Pulls out a math test with a B+ circled in red in the upper right hand corner. He’s finally gotten the hang of carrying the one. He studies the paper. It might be worth the risk, putting it out where it could be seen. Maybe she’d be proud. But just as likely she’d say he was prideful. There was no right answer with her, as his uncle Lou liked to say. And Uncle Lou was her twin brother, so he’d know.
He tries it out on the kitchen table. Time ticks. No, it’s too brazen out there, obviously wanting to be looked at like that. The boy moves it to the counter. That’s definitely better. At least it’s something close to subtle.
Returning to the couch to stare at the door, he drags his fingers through his thick, black hair. Sweat traces his hairline. She’s late. Not necessarily a bad sign. Late, early, or on time makes no difference as to whether she comes home funny. But the later she is, the more waiting there is to be done. Only good thing is, the wait ends sharp as a snap. One look will tell him what he’s in for.
Too much time has passed, and the boy loses his nerve. Leaving the test out is a bad idea; he knows that now. There can’t be much time left, so it’s a sprint to the counter. He grabs the sheet and hustles back to his book bag in the living room, but the front door is already opening. This isn’t good. It’s no good to be caught in quick motion.
He looks up and up and up to get to her face. His mama’s a tall lady, and he’s only seven. He’s overwhelmed by red. Red heels, red nails, red lips, red hair, red eyes. So help him, the boy has always thought his mama’s -copper-colored eyes damn near shined red. He looks into those eyes and knows she’s come home funny.
CHAPTER TWO