Time limped past at the pace of a snail. And while Brittle understood this analogy did not technically work, as snails by definition did not possess the necessary legs with which to limp, he couldn’t think of a word more befitting the sluggish movements of a snail. They neither slithered nor slunk. And while a turtle might have been a better animal of choice, comparing the way each minute stretched beyond its physical limitations would have been unfair to the noble turtle. Thus, time moved like a snail. A mutated one. With bad legs.

Brittle no longer questioned the accuracy of his analogies. His thoughts, much like time, had been warped by his unjust imprisonment.

He sat on the hardwood floor with his back to the door, pondering his life choices and the particular path that had led him to incarceration. He was a different bog log beast than the one he’d been at the start of his sentence. Solitary confinement had changed him. Hardened his heart. Stripped all of the sappy goodness from his soul. He was a bleak-eyed criminal now. As much as Brittle wanted to rejoin the outside world, be a productive member of society again, a part of him feared he would no longer recognize life beyond his bare bedroom walls.

The carefree bog log beast lad that had played in the woods just two days before was gone. Poor tyke, Brittle thought to himself. So innocent. So naive. So utterly blind to the harsh reality of life. Oh how he wished he could go back and prepare his former self for the tragedies to come. Who knows, maybe his former self would have heeded the warning and done better. Maybe he could have overcome what present Brittle, himself, could not. Maybe he could have swallowed his pride and gotten down off that awful chair. And then he would still be out there, free, running between the trees, and feeling the dirt between his toes.

Brittle couldn’t even remember what good dirt felt like. Never mind that there was a bowl of untouched soil beside him. It wasn’t the good kind. Therefore, it didn’t count.

Lost in his internal wallowing, Brittle missed the sudden tap at the window. The second and third managed to capture his attention, however. He stood and rushed over, taken aback to find a familiar dirt-smudged face pressed up against the glass, peering inside.

“Rochelle?” Brittle gasped. It was incredible. It felt like years had passed, and still, his friend looked as sprightly as ever. He only wished the same could be said for him. Alas, the combined toll of imprisonment and puberty had robbed him of his youthful glow. Brittle felt like a flowerless rose. All thorns, no blooms. The withered stick in the metaphorical garden of life.

Rochelle’s mouth moved but it was difficult to make out her words with the sheet of glass between them.

Brittle tilted his head to the side. “What?”

With an exasperated roll of her eyes, Rochelle wedged her hands beneath the window and heaved it open. “I said, come outside.”

Brittle glanced hurriedly over his shoulder as a lance of fear flooded his rickety bones. To his relief, the bedroom door did not swing open. “I’m not supposed to open the window.”

“You didn’t,” Rochelle replied matter-of-factly. “I did.”

“Oh. Well I guess it’s within the rules then.” Brittle would be forever amazed at Rochelle’s ability to rationalize the decisions she made. He was even more amazed with how he found himself agreeing with her rationalizations. After all, Edvin hadn’t forbidden anyone else from opening the window. “How did you find me?”

“You didn’t show up at the pools yesterday so I went looking for you. Yours is the only cottage with a three-legged chicken wandering outside. I figured this had to be the place.”

“Don’t blame this on me!” Lastar’s disembodied voice carried up from below, out of sight. Brittle tentatively peeked over the windowsill to find the demigod in chicken form, standing at attention between Rochelle’s feet. He puffed up his white feathers at Brittle and clucked, “For the record, I told her to leave.”

“He did,” Rochelle agreed, pretending not to notice the way the three-legged chicken was now pecking mercilessly at her oversized boots. “Many times. Anyway, what are you waiting for? A formal invitation? Come on, Brittle. We’ve got a mushroom to find.”

The impulse to throw himself out the window and follow her to the end of the known world was difficult to ignore. Brittle sighed, swallowing the sense of adventure bubbling up inside of him. “I can’t. I’m grounded.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Says who?”

“Edvin.”

Rochelle’s dark brown eyes grew wide with immediate curiosity. She glanced past Brittle, eyes scouring his bare bedroom walls, as if she’d never seen the inside of a cottage before. “Is Edvin your dad? Wait, does that mean there are more of you? A whole family of forest sprites?”

From the way Rochelle’s calloused hands gripped the windowsill, Brittle feared his overeager friend was mere moments from clambering inside to investigate for herself. “No.” He moved to block her from entering. “Edvin just looks after me.”

Brittle dropped the ‘poorly’ from his sentence, even though he really, really wanted to include it. Angry feelings aside, it wasn’t Edvin’s fault he was terrible at being a parent. It wasn’t like he had any good examples to draw from. Not that Brittle was ready to admit that and make amends. After all, even if Edvin did lift the grounding, Brittle was still forbidden from playing with Rochelle.

And that, Brittle concluded, feeling his wee heart harden once more, was simply unforgivable.

“Sorry, Rochelle,” he said. “I can’t come out.”

“But you have to.”

“But–”

“You don’t understand, the illness has spread. The villagers need the cure more than ever.” Rochelle paused as her face grew strangely ashen. “They’re scared, Brittle. Grandad says scared people act rashly. There are already whispers starting around town that we started this. I need the medicine to fix this before it gets worse.”

“Can’t you do it without me?” Brittle asked.

Rochelle’s eyes said no, along with a thousand words more. Each one spoke of hurt, betrayal, and the inevitable wanings of false hope. Her mouth, on the other hand, said nothing, because it wasn’t moving. It shrank in size instead, forming a sad, downturned little line that may as well have been a kick to the teeth.

“Son of a gum tree.” Brittle glared up at the ceiling as the last proverbial thread of responsibility unraveled from his sweater of moral convictions. How could he say no to that pitiful face? Maybe it was because he was a hardened criminal now, but the wrong thing had never felt so right before.

Rochelle clasped her hands in front of her. “You’ll do it?”

“Just keep it down,” Brittle hissed as he glanced once more behind him before swinging his rickety leg over the windowsill.

Lastar fluttered about in the grass near Rochelle’s feet, flapping his wings as he paced back and forth, working himself into a feathery frenzy. “No, no, no! This is not good. Bad decision making. Bad!”

Brittle pushed off from the window and landed in soft grass below. The landing wasn’t anything graceful, but at least there was an eager hand waiting to pull him to his feet at the end. Deep down, Brittle suspected he would have jumped out of the window a hundred times more just to hold that hand a little longer.

“I’ll go tell!” Lastar seemed to be speaking to himself now, considering no one else was. “That’s what I’ll do! I’ll march up to the front door and–”

“And what? Tell them you’re a spy?” Brittle said. “Go ahead, Lastar. I’m sure those that employ you will just love to hear about how you colluded with your targets. Not to mention the part where you let me, the one you’re supposed to keep an eye on at all times, slip right past you.”

“But…”

“Oh, no, no. Don’t let me stop you. You’ve never been lucky a day in your life – said so yourself – but that just means you’re overdue for a win, right?” While Brittle had always been adept at talking his way out of a situation, it had never come this easily before. It was as if the words, as terrible as they were, had always been in his head, simply awaiting their turn in the spotlight. “What are the chances Edvin loses his temper? Or Sir Thomassin, for that matter? Did you know Thom still has that great big sword of his? Don’t know why he keeps the silly thing, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”

Several tense seconds crept past at a pace only slighter faster than the pathetic limp of a mutated snail. In that time, Brittle stared the chicken down. The chicken brazenly stared right back, fury burning within his black, beady eyes.

“There’s something different about you,” Lastar said, at last.

“I’m a hardened criminal now.”

“Not that.”

“Ah, must be the puberty then.” Brittle had heard the bridge to adolescence was often accompanied by a rebellious streak. As confusing as it was, he’d never imagined the changes to feel so empowering.

Lastar tilted his head to the side curiously. “What do you think puberty is?”

“Changes,” Brittle replied matter-of-factly. “Growing older, bolder, talking back, and getting so angry the gold in your pocket turns to dust.”

“Wait.” Rochelle squinted her eyes in confusion. “What’s this about gol–”

“No, no, he’s right. That’s exactly what that is.” Lastar performed a sad hop and a skip, fluttering several feet in the air as he ushered Brittle and Rochelle away from the house. “Your powers of persuasion have swayed my feeble mind. Go on now, hurry. A successful jailbreak hinges on not getting caught, you know.”