THE OTHER SIDE OF THE green wall was different from what the boy had expected. It was darker than the beach, but not as black as it looked from outside. Sharp rays of light bore down between the trees, illuminating a parade of colors. Leaves gleamed every shade of green, brown, and gray. Blurs of red and blue twittered in the treetops.
Even the air was different. It was cooler and smelled cleaner than the salty air on the beach. Because of the trees, the boy thought, a fragment of a memory coming to him, then flitting away again.
There were a lot of trees. Trunk after trunk after trunk, rising out of the ground and into the sky. Every one had branches that crisscrossed over one another, fighting for their own space and piece of sun. The growth was so thick that after only a short distance, the boy couldn’t see the rocks or the ocean anymore. With every step he took, the forest opened in front of him and silently closed behind.
What he liked most was that he was walking away from the hungry, angry sea. Before long, the boy couldn’t even hear the waves breaking on the shore. He was safe from the long fingers of the tide.
But he knew that didn’t mean he was safe from everything. It was quieter here. And that made every sudden noise more scary. Twigs snapped. Leaves rustled. Wind whispered. The forest seemed to breathe.
“Don’t be afraid,” the boy murmured to the blanket, and wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts.
He tried to keep his mind off all the things that scared him. He thought about Umbrella Beach and seeing his parents for the first time. They’d raise their arms, smile, and shout . . . What would they shout? What would they call him? Why did he know frogs were making that croaking noise and about hotels and umbrellas and loungers, but he couldn’t picture his parents and he didn’t even know the most important thing about himself—his name?
That question kept itching to be asked. But he didn’t want to admit that he still couldn’t remember his own name. It haunted the boy, toyed with him. A whisper on the edge of his hearing. So close, but just out of reach. And yet, it was something he should know.
Laughter broke out. “It’s amazing you even know how to walk.”
“Leave me alone,” the boy said. He walked faster, then realized he couldn’t get away from this bully.
“How about I help you remember? Your name is . . . Drake the snake.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Shane the stain?”
“Stop it!”
“Stu the poo?”
The boy gritted his teeth and banged his hand on his temple.
“Remember!” he demanded.
His brain didn’t respond, so the boy banged harder.
“Remember! Remember! REMEMBER!”
His brain still returned nothing—except a small pain in his temple.
“Unnhh.”
“Forget it,” the bully said. “Oh yeah. You already have.”
The boy put his hands over his ears. But it didn’t keep the bully out.
“Good thing your head’s screwed on tight or you might forget—”
“SHUT UP!” The boy halted. Angry breaths charged out of his mouth, and his hands clenched into fists at his side. He waited, breathing and listening, expecting the bully to taunt him again, but it was quiet.
“Good,” the boy said. “Stay away.”
He strode on, trying to focus on the crackle of dry leaves under his feet, waving away the tiny flies that buzzed around his face, pretending not to see the spiders that peered at him from sticky webs. The more he walked, the more the shadows played with him, hiding behind tree trunks, running in front, then stretching out along the pathway ahead.
But the boy barely noticed. He couldn’t ignore the anger that had built up inside him. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t remember his name; at least, he didn’t think it was. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want to know his name. To hear his parents say it. To be with them and not alone in this place with the scary water and trees and monsters. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t trying.
The question was: Would trying be enough?
He remembered the way his father’s voice had called him kiddo. The boy knew that wasn’t his real name, could feel it down to his toes, but perhaps it was a special name his father called him. A name his dad used when the boy had done something good or made him proud.
He wondered if his father would be proud of him now. The boy hoped he would. He wished he could see his father, even in a memory, know what they did together. He felt that he wanted to show his father . . . he wasn’t sure what, but he suddenly longed to show his father something—
A rustle. A branch snapped. Leaves crunched.
The boy froze.
Fear erupted in his stomach. His breath caught in his throat. He had been reckless, moving too noisily and shouting at the bully when he should’ve kept quiet.
Before he even turned, the boy knew what was behind him.
He wished he didn’t.