Little Bird | Book One

Preface

July Night

 Dove was falling.

She knew because her tiny little legs and stick-thin arms flailed through the air like whipping cattails stuck in the angry Oklahoma wind. Above her head, dry lightning struck across the darkening sky and wove through the heavy gray clouds.

There was a storm coming.

Dove hated storms. Every roll of thunder made her pint-sized chest tighten. Rain only made everything smell rotten and turn wet.

Dove was screaming, too.

She didn't know how any of it began. The screaming, the falling, the storm.

Suddenly, she hit the ground.

Hard pebbles dug into her back and underneath her shirt. All the air in her body ripped out of her chest and escaped through her mouth in a long, loud squeal.

"Dove!"

Her name came from somewhere up, somewhere above her foggy head.

That's right, she thought. Falling meant there was an up.

She pressed a white trembling hand to the nape of her neck, just where a pain throbbed at the bottom of her skull. Her fingers found something sticky and warm.

Blood.

She didn't want to look at it, so she wiped her palm on the denim of her jeans and hoped her momma wouldn't be too angry about the stain.

Her grey eyes stared up, and even with her fuzzy vision, the outlines of her three friends hung above. Their heads poked out of the sinkhole like curious turtles. She imagined them in thick, green shells, staring at the water below for the off chance a minnow might pass and dinner would be served.

"I'm here," she called out. "I'll—I'll look for a way out."

She didn't want to admit she was scared. Her momma told her she was brave for an eight-year-old. In two weeks, she would be nine.

Nine-year-old Dove wouldn't be scared of anything.

The young girl stood up on wobbly legs. Her red Converse was absent from her left foot. The back of her neck continued to bleed, definitely ruining her favorite sweater.

"Dove," Tommy called down to her. The boy's shaggy hair hung down in a black silhouette. His body was just a collection of shapes moving above. "Dove, you gotta be careful— Mattie went on and she's gettin' her daddy, okay?"

"Okay," Dove whispered. Her voice sounded smaller now, like she was the minnow staring up at three hungry turtles. "I'll just-- I'll wait."

"You're goin' to be fine."

Dove recognized the high-pitch of Rina's voice. Her friend shoved Tommy to the side with her bony elbow. "Mr. LeCruz can pick up anyone. I bet he'll just reach inside this hole and pluck you out."

Dove agreed with a quick nod at the mention of Mr. LeCruz. Matilda, who already ran off searching for help, would grab her daddy. Dove tried to ignore the ringing stuck between her ears, like a June bug was rattling somewhere in her brain.

There was nothing Mr. LeCruz couldn't do. And as soon as Mr. LeCruz saved her from the bottom of the sinkhole, she wouldn't even have to worry about the dark anymore.

Dove didn't mind it, the dark, or at least, not as much as her brother did. He always slept with a night-light, even though he was almost thirteen. Dove liked that she couldn't see anything through the thick layer of blue-black.