A H.E.R.O.S PROJECT 12

4. Don't go into the woods

God strikes two hours into our stay, blessing me with a miracle. Though, this miracle has nothing to do with the healing of my foot.

I accept it either way.

Grandpa neatly stacks the UNO cards, folds an outdoor blanket, packs the s'mores kit, and puts away his book of not-so-scary stories in the coat closet downstairs in the entryway, "I don't want to hear about you two sneaks wandering on my property. You take Lou for a walk in the front. Only in the front of the house. She'll want to stretch her legs and don't go by the gate. Don't get two feet close to the gate. Avoid it. You hear me squirt?"

"Yes, sir," Richie and I say.

Grandpa is a carpenter and then a lumberjack when he's bored of being a carpenter. Grandpa doesn't need the money since he owns tons of property and houses he rents in neighboring towns and cities. He works because he's good with his hands and doesn't want to get out of shape, which has been working for him. At six-foot-six, Grandpa is a walking tower of muscles. Harley Davidson parked in the garage, signature black bomber jacket he wears when he drives to Eugenes to see us; Grandpa is the coolest old guy around. It's just when he starts talking about weird conspiracy theories and guns and staying ready for the end is when he loses me.

"Good. I gave Ol'Jimmy Boy," literally, Grandpa's neighbor/tenant's name is Ol'Jimmy Boy. It says Ol'Jimmy Boy on his driver's license. I asked Jimmy Boy if I could see it, "a call. He knows you kids are alone. Don't worry if the doorbell rings. It's him checking in." There's a long pause, and Grandpa stares at us, his back slouching, his long arms folding. "No cops. No men in suits. Don't let them in. And go into the bunker if you hear or see anything out of the norm. You'll be safe there until I come home."

Grandpa points at Richie, "Son, no fires."

"I haven't done anything yet!" Richie states. He removes the cold compress off his puffy eye to better look at Grandpa offending him.

Grandpa frowns, and the corners of his mouth curl downward. The creases around his eyes and forehead become apparent. Constantly frowning, heartbreak and disappointment had permanently lined and aged his relatively supple skin. Understandable; too many times, we've invited chaos into his home, broken windows and doors, and I accidentally shot his truck. But as long as we come clean and admit our faults, Grandpa will easily forgive us. And after doing chores for him. It's a pretty fair exchange. "I know, and that's why I'm afraid. It took me two months to fix your mother's kitchen. I would have fixed it quicker if Anaya had more of your—allowance?"

I nod at him, reiterating why I'm given an allowance again, "It's an allowance for doing chores. Mom pays us for cleaning her house and watering her plants sometimes." Grandpa doesn't believe in allowances. He grew up in an era where children had jobs before they were ten, and cleaning the home was mandatory.

Grandpa's face sours at the thought of giving children money for cleaning, "Don't go igniting your tools and trying to connect wires. You're not good at that yet."

Richie is eating his burger from McLonald's Grandpa bought us. Between bites, he counts circuit panels stashed in his adorable tin lunch pail he uses as a toolbox. Richie said something about making the toaster toast faster, which is a waste of an invention. His laser was cooler—only if the laser didn't burn Mom's kitchen to ash.

"I've already made an improved design," Richie explains, opening a folder. Papers inside are organized, dated, and placed into two categories: failures and successes.

There have been no successes.

Richie forgoes his dinner and grabs Mom's toaster under his chair. He gently places the toaster on the table, "Mom said it cooked too slow. I'm speeding up the toasting time. I fixed the microwave at our house. Works like brand new."

And Richie did fix the microwave, to an extent. The microwave works, but the dishwasher, microwave, and stove turn on together. That shouldn't happen. Heating leftovers has become a terrifying decision between having warm food and battling conscious kitchenware. I've chosen to eat my food cold. Cold food isn't that bad once you get used to it.

"Solomon Jr.! You're killing me. Just don't plug that toaster in before I look at it. Alright, son?"

Grandpa frowns at me now like I did something. Three distinct blue veins bulge on his forehead. "Anaya, watch him closely. With both your eyes. There are canned beans, deer, and fresh vegetables in the refrigerator, and Lou's dinner is on the counter. Feed Lou in two hours. Make sure she stretches her legs, and no one is allowed over. Hopefully, these repairs won't take too long. If they do, you two stay put, and that's an order."

One of Grandpa's rental properties has a plumbing issue. Water is leaking from old pipes in the upstairs bathroom, and his tenants are complaining. Grandpa will fix the problem and list things to repair since he will be out that way. Lucky for us, no UNO and Scrabble.

"Yeah, that's cool. Walk the dog, watch Richie. Got it."

"Don't go walking around on my property," Grandpa warns, slipping on dusty black work boots. He ties each boot carefully, triple knotting his laces, and heads for the front door. But not before putting a gun strapped to his waist in the coat closet. He points at the gun, so I know where it is. "Sweetheart, these are the woods. We have wild cats, bears, hunters, vermin, and scavengers running loose. They'll get you before you get them. That's why it's too dangerous for kids. Then Ol'Jimmy Boy is always catching dumb college brats trying to get drunk by the stream up the mountain. Stay in the house. Use your brain, Anaya." Grandpa knocks on my forehead with his knuckles, further emphasizing what he said.

Staring at his hopeless grandchildren, Grandpa clenches Richie's shoulder and kisses me bye on the cheek. "I'll be home soon. Don't go into the woods. Be smart."