Into the Hollow

CHAPTER 1 Free a + b = c In Theory, Anyway

The last present Daddy gave me was a gun.

Not a minute after I unwrapped the used .22, he took me out back to shoot rusted targets lined on the woodpile. After missing the first shot, I hit every can. Even though misery clouded his eyes then, Daddy beamed and set up more so I could do it again. And I did, the cans falling to the snow-covered ground with every blast of the gun. Ain't you a natural, Free?

That was my eleventh birthday, almost seven years ago, but the memory of my father's words gave me confidence, especially now. They played in my mind as I peered into the scope, not moving. This shot had to count; we couldn't spare the ammo for a second one. A natural, a natural, a natural...

"Shoot him, Sissy."

"Quiet," I whispered. We lay prone atop a bed of rotting vegetation, probably covered with ticks I'd have to pick off both of us at home.

Deep breath.

His neck stayed in my sights, the shotgun barrel propped on a fallen hickory branch, my cheek against the cold stock.

Steady.

Stop shaking, dammit!

I prayed for luck and pulled the trigger. Boom! Heavy wings flapped, kicking up dirt as gobbling echoed through the morning fog.

"You got him!" My brother ran to our kill, the rest of the flock escaping into the thicket.

I grinned when he tried to lift the gobbler by its legs, and looped the shotgun strap on my shoulder. "You doubting me, Little?"

"Never," he said, the early chill turning his breath to smoke. He attempted to pick up the bird again, failing. It probably weighed more than he did.

"Good thing." I stood and brushed off my jeans before collecting our supper from Little's struggling hands. "C'mon. We'll get Daddy to cook him up while we're gone."

"Can we shoot another one tomorrow?"

"Sorry, buddy. This here's probably the last hunt. Not much ammo left."

"Oh." He hurried after me as I led us out of the woods. "Can we have potatoes, too?"

"None left."

"Darn."

I loved how he spoke. He didn't have the sharp twang like Daddy and me. Little's clean voice brought Needles, California, to Poplar Branch, West Virginia—America's dirty secret. At least that's how I saw our hiding spot in Middle of Nowhere, Appalachia.

I pointed to some rocks before he tripped over them. "Hey, remember the ginseng around here? That root we told you about?" At his nod, I continued, "Well, Daddy got himself a nice haul last night. If all goes the way I expect, food won't be a concern for a while."

His footfalls were loud, sounding more like a full-grown man than a skinny five-year-old boy. "Will we get our lights on, too?"

"No electric here. Already told you."

A pause. "When are we going to stop camping, Sissy?"

"Soon." I guided Little down the steep ravine toward the road.

Camping. What Daddy and I had told him four months ago when we arrived at the shack we lived in now. Every time he asked when we'd be going home, I'd tell him the same thing.

Soon.

The only lie that fell from my lips and hit his ears.

Once we made it to the narrow road, Little pulled out the blue calculator I bought him before we left California. As he typed, the burn scar running along his left palm by his thumb flashed, and I had to hide my wince behind a smile.