𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐎 | ᴍɪʟʟᴀʀᴅ ɴᴜʟʟɪɴɢꜱ

𝟐𝟔] 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐄?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ DOES PINCHING COUNT AS ABUSE?

     TODAY WASN'T LOOKING SO GOOD.

     Morning brought rain and wind and fog, pessimistic weather that made it hard to believe the previous day had been anything more than a strange and wonderful dream. Jacob and I wolfed down our breakfast and told our dad we were going out.

     He looked at us like we were nuts. "In this? To do what?"

     "To hang out with-" I started, without thinking. Then, to cover my tracks, I pretended to have a piece of food stuck in my throat. But it was too late; he'd heard me.

     "Hang out with who? Not those rapper hoodlums, I hope."

     The only way out of this hole was to dig deeper. "No. You've probably never seen them, they live on the other side of, um, the island, and—"

     "Really? I didn't think anyone lived over there."

     "Yeah," Jacob said, "well, just a few people. Like, sheep-tenders and whatnot. Anyway, they're cool--they watch our backs while we're at the house."

     Friends and safety: two things my dad couldn't possibly object to.

     "I want to meet them," he said, trying to look stern. He often put on this face, an imitation of the sensible, no-nonsense dad I think he aspired to be.

     "Sure thing. We're meeting up over there, though, so another time."

     He nodded and took another bite of his breakfast. "Be back by dinner," he said.

     "Roger that, Dad."

     We practically raced to the bog. As I picked my way through in shifting muck, trying to remember the route of semi-invisible grasslands Emma had used to cross it, I worried that all I would find on the other side was more rain and a ruined house.

     So it was with great relief that we emerged from the cairn to find September third, 1940, just as we had left it; the day warm and sunny and fogless, the sky a despendable blue, clouds forming shapes that seemed comfortingly familiar.

     Even better, Emma and Millard were there waiting for us, sitting on the edge of the mound casting stones into the bog.

     "About time!" Emma cried, jumping to her feet. "Come on, everyone's waiting for you."

     "They are?"

     "Indeed, " Millard said, taking my hand and pulling me after him.

     I sparked with excitement--not only at his touch, but at the thought of the day that lay ahead, full of endless possibility. Though in a million superficial ways it would be identical to the day betore-the same breeze would blow and the same tree limbs would fall--my experience of it would be new.

     So would the peculiar children's. They were the gods of this strange little heaven, and I was their guest.

     We dashed across the bog and through the forest as if late for an appointment. When we reached the house, Millard and Emma led us around to the backyard, where a small wooden stage had been erected.

     Kids were bustling in and out of the house, carrying props, buttoning up suit jackets, and zipping into sequined dresses. Warming up was a little orchestra, made up of just an accordion, a battered trombone, and a musical saw that Horace played with a bow.

     "Whats this?" Jacob asked Emma. "Are you guys putting on a play?"

     "You'll see," she said.