9:06 a.m.
A tree limb snags on my watch. Its leather band cuts into my wrist; I hiss in pain. Laura Hurst’s babysitter is seconds behind. She probably hears me. Does she see me? I undo the buckle with reddening fingers. The watch falls into the fresh snow. With it, time slips away as if the ticking hands were the only thing that cemented me to the here and now.
Her face nags at me, as it did the first moment I saw her. I test out names as I struggle through the white forest. Sally. No. Sarah. No. Sandra. No. Samantha. Yes. With her name comes a memory of getting my hair brushed and cold fingers on my neck.
Cavities in the snow lead her to me like breadcrumbs.
Despite having lived in Silynn for the better part of my early childhood, each part of the woods is a foreign language. The snowy ground covered in branches and leaves is Spanish; I can move freely if I go slow. Trees with monster limbs are Italian—too far removed from familiarity. Falling snow is French. I recognize it, but wading through is harder than it seems, even though a cute exchange student in high school taught me how to say, “I love you.” And the canopy is beyond a spoken language—it’s Braille. The very idea of learning it intimidated me into defeat, leaving me feeling small and lost.
In the bright day, only miles away from a home I spent years in, I may as well be in the Bermuda Triangle. Even worse still, I cannot call for help in case my voice carries.
The morning light is almost humorous. Monsters are supposed to chase you in the middle of the night.
I am oddly aware of the wispy hairs on the top of my feet caught in between fibers of my socks. They are my older brother’s fingers pinching the back of my young, soft arms. I hate Peter. The fear-fueled realization urges me to live a life beyond this place. I pretend I am running in water. The mud-drenched sensation weighing my legs down is a force I can push past. A friend’s mother—a kind woman with hugs to spare—taught me to swim. She told me that the water was mine to command. Snow was water once.
My throbbing head fills with pressure. As if I jumped from the deep end and the solid surface shattered, sounds around me muffle. The lack of clarity unsettles me. I only hear my heart and lungs. Every breath I take is louder than the one before until I’m an overheated dog. The air-puffs in front of me warm my cheeks as I race through them.
Tired thighs burn with each high step I take, and I know my pace slows. Samantha, the babysitter, breathes down my neck—like at Lynn Pond. I’m forever being chased. This is why I hide. If I’m seen—if I stand still too long—I may be caught.
A branch behind me groans, and the sound becomes more than important than my physical pain. She’s close. If I get away, I’m never coming back to Silynn.