The Trail (MAJOR EDITING IN PROGRESS)

Countdown, Hour 2

The worn house sat at the end of a cracked concrete walkway. It has an inviting air about, like a grandmother's house, but I know for a fact it is only a middle-aged couple living here. This is the family of a teen boy who had gone missing twenty years ago.

We walked up the new oak steps and passed a few stray cats eating table scraps from a porcelain bowl. The door is pale green, painted partially by a child's hand. There is love here.

Holland knocked on the door, knowing my nervousness about bothering others. A woman's call came from deep inside the world of those who live here,

"Come on in, unless you're from a church!"

"I'm not, but will I be welcome?"

Holland cracked a smile, and then to him, my hesitation became obvious.

"Lucy, it's okay."

"You won't say anything," I accused.

"This isn't like my mom."

"Better not."

"That still hurts Holland, I hope you realize the way in which it hurts too."

Holland turned the dark brown handle, and we stepped inside. A coatrack beside the door is filled with jackets of various sizes and colors, along with a few different dog leashes. The door we stepped through, opened up to an entryway, which led to a living room area. Along the walls are framed pictures of families smiling, crayon drawings of what look like fish eating skittles, and quotes about life. The floor has a few pairs of shoes scattered about, and the scent of Febreeze is prominent in the air.

A young redheaded girl ran in carrying a Batman action figure and she hid inside a closet to my right. A moment later, a young redheaded boy ran in carrying Spiderman and making the web action with his hand,

"I'll find you Batgirl!" He shouted as he sprinted to the closet and yanked the door open.

"Lily! Chance!" A woman walked in wearing pajamas and a book.

"Just a moment," she said to us before crossing the rug-ed floor to the children wrestling on the carpet, "we have company, so go into the living room and play quietly," her voice is commanding and kind at the same time, she adores the children. The way her blue eyes show happy content with them, I know she's a good person.

She turned to us, wiping a piece of black hair out of her face,

"Where are you from?"

"Kansas, Topeka area," Holland answered. I stood, my mouth and throat sticking like peanut butter.

"What are your names?" She inquired hopefully.

"I'm Lucy, and this," I pointed to Holland, "is Holland."

Her face fell, and she shook each of hour hands, "I'm Nancy."

"Nice to meet you," I replied kindly.

She sighed, "Jenny sent you?" It was a question, but it was more of a statement than anything else.

"Yes, about the trail," Holland again answered.

"I see. Alice, would you keep an eye on your sister and brother for me?" She called upwards.

"A muffled 'yes' came back, and above us we heard a door open and then close, and then the sound of pounding on a staircase met my ears. A girl a little older than me walked past the entryway, and began playing with the children, which was confirmed by intense giggling and the sound of running feet.

"Come outside," she beckoned us out the door she had just opened. We walked outside, back into the yard Holland and I had just entered the house from, and we trudged through foot deep blistery cold snow to the side of the house. There sat a gazebo closed in by thermal netting. She walked ahead of us, down a snow shoveled path, and opened a screen door for us.