Grist Mill Road by Christopher J. Yates Read Free Book Online Page B

to get to my feet.
    But what’s it like? Will my mom be able to tell?
    No, it’s kinda bloodshot, I said. There were dried leaves stuck to my hands. I wiped them away.
    Why can’t I see anything from it?
    I started to kick lightly at the ground with my toe. Maybe it’s kinda … shocked, I told her, like unconscious. And the next thing I said was something I actually believed. But if there’s anything wrong, I’m sure the doctors will fix it.
    Hannah’s good eye just blinked.
    I stood there uneasily, as if there existed a zone between us through which I wasn’t allowed to pass, and said to her, Is it OK if…? Can I come over and help you, Hannah?
    She nodded at me, so I walked forward gingerly and then leaned around the tree to eye up the knots. Hannah’s breathing was loud. I have to go get a knife, I said.
    The ropes creaked. Nooo, she pleaded. Don’t leave me here, Patch.
    It’s not far, I said. We keep supplies over there, it’ll take less than a minute, I promise. Don’t worry, I’ll whistle a tune so you’ll know I’m still here, I said.
    Heading deeper into the woods, I started to whistle. The only tune I could think of was Whistle While You Work . And I could whistle the singing bit pretty well but I wasn’t so good at whistling the whistling bit.
    We had this place where we kept all the stuff we’d take up there, everything hidden beneath a tarp kicked over with leaves. Weapons-wise, there was a slingshot, our spear and a load of BBs in tins and plastic bottles. We had soda cans for playing the game we called Rifle Range and sets of paper targets. We had a bunch of food in cans and a can opener, obviously. There were some bones and antlers we’d picked up here and there, although wenever really found a good use for them. A compass we didn’t need, a pair of weak plastic binoculars, a hip flask that we’d fill up from the stream and take sips from like we were real men drinking liquor. There were pickle jars for frogs, a couple of cigarette lighters, a pair of toy handcuffs. And we had two knives, a little Swiss Army knife that was nine-tenths blunt and also a scrimshaw hunting knife, its bone handle etched with a grizzly bear marauding down a piney bluff. Matthew loved that hunting knife so much we hardly ever used it, which is why the Swiss Army knife was nine-tenths blunt.
    When I got to the place, I saw the tarp pulled all the way back. And right away I could tell he’d used every single rope we had.
    We used the thinnest ones for tripwires and the thicker ones to play Tarzan—which mostly involved swinging over streams—or to make lassos. Oh and also for an escape game we called Houdini. And I was definitely the best at Houdini. Not because I was the best at knots but because I had thinner hands and was the best at wriggling free.
    Anyway, I knew exactly where the two knives were kept, so right away I could tell Matthew had taken the hunting knife. I wondered if he’d thought about cutting my throat when he had me pinned down thirty minutes earlier.
    That’s when I heard Hannah screaming my name and realized I’d stopped whistling. So I started to run back, not pulling the tarp back over our supplies, calling out that everything was OK.
    Sorry, I said, getting back to the tree, using my least-chewed-upon fingernail to ease the blade from the Swiss Army knife.
    Patch, hurry up, said Hannah, shivering now in the near-hundred heat.
    That blade was so blunt it probably would’ve been just as quick had I gnawed through those ropes with my teeth.

 
    NEW YORK, 2008
    He waits for Hannah to call again, watching the story as it sprouts fresh limbs on the television news channels. By eleven most of the details are in, the story playing on loop.
    Â  … worked for two years at the jewelry store in the West Village. But Johnson was sacked after the store owner, Elias Petridis, received several