Author: Leigh Therriault

My home is a tomb after school. I slip my key in the lock, twist my wrist left. Pin tumblers aligned, the plug rotates. I’m in. I kick off my sandals, let my backpack fall to the floor. It’s almost autumn but I refuse to wear shoes. Not yet. For my feet, it’s still summer, even if it means they have to freeze.

The remote floats up to meet my hand. I click the television on. Talk shows are a balm. Even if I only have thirty minutes to rest before my paper route. I flop on the couch, let the bold florals swallow my wispy form in one gulp. My lack of hunger still surprises me. I haven’t eaten in weeks.

I remember the wilderness survival course we took last year. My dad’s idea, while my brother and I moaned. My mom tried to hype it up. You never know when these skills will come in handy, honey.

I can identify edible berries and poisonous fungi. Cattails are nutritious and delicious, so try to get lost around a marsh or pond. However, water is not the first thing to go hunting for. Exposure will kill you long before thirst.

Build a shelter with branches, sticks, and leaves. Keep your body off the ground. Conduction is a killer. Even summer nights can be fatally frigid. Even tranquil nights that begin with the warmth of a campfire by a lake. Ripples of water, wonder, spreading to the other side. Water so smooth it lures you in. The moon so wide, you reach up to grab it like a greedy child.

The spell cracks. The drive home. Winding roads that are too narrow, too twisty. But you are still mesmerized by the Milky Way—dreaming of one more marshmallow, golden and gooey, stuck to the stick. And the smoky air clings to your t-shirt, your sandals still speckled with sand.

My house has spirits. The past only exists in memories. And memories are personal, subjective. But if we all recall the same thing, that makes it real. So I forget. Every day. And I try to help others forget too. Maybe then, we can change the past. Alter the present. Shape the future.

The grandfather clock chimes, breaching my trance. I am still bound by time. I drag myself off the couch. Stuff my feet back into my sandy sandals. I’m out the door and the lock rotates right. On my bike, pumping the pedals. At the drop-off spot, sidewalk stained with ink.

I pick up the papers, shove them into my shoulder bag. People want their news on time. My fingers slip; inky pages flutter down. A headline flashes from the cold ground, solemn like a gravestone. I jerk my gaze away at the sight of the word, CRASH.

I push off the pavement, balancing my bike. The spokes spin. The gears grind. Sunshine spills from a bowl above the clouds. My last route on an infinite loop.

People need their newspapers on time.