The Journey Home

John spotted the trampled grass blades in the grassy bank and overturned stones lying in the clear water creek bed. Someone had been there, probably within the last twenty minutes. The stones were still wet; their mossy tops still slick, despite the boiling sunlight. How long had it been since John had seen another human face? Six months, a year? He'd lost track of time a long time ago. Better to avoid contact, no complications, no pain, no questions. Just better that way.

He started to turn the other way when he spotted the small shoe print: A child, probably only five or six. No adult prints were close by. Too young to be out here alone in the woods, miles from tourist areas, perhaps hundreds of miles from any cities. A knee print was barely visible in the dry dirt bank. Obviously, the kid had kneeled down to drink directly from the stream.

John moved silently along the creek bank, looking to see where the kid had left the stream. He moved downstream about twenty yards before he stopped and turned around. Figures. An adult would have traveled downstream. The conventional wisdom was that streams run to rivers and rivers run to the sea, with civilization scattered all along the way. But a seven-year-old kid would not know that.

Dettagli