I didn’t mean to kill him. It wasn’t my fault. His neck was so long and twisted, bent at an unnatural angle. It didn’t seem like it should look that way. I watched for movement. There was none. I stared at his lifeless body at the bottom of the sand dune, dirt smearing his face, his eyes closed. He was too far away for me to see if his chest was rising and falling, but at seven years old, that wasn’t something I even thought to look for. All I knew was that there was a scared little boy—and a body.

I had no idea what to do. Tears streamed down my face, and a raw, immature form of panic took over my body. Running wouldn’t help. Going for help would be even worse. Thoughts of the trouble I might be in flooded my mind. Maybe they wouldn’t let me see my parents again. Maybe they’d send me to foster care forever. Another wave of sobbing overtook me, shaking my small frame. The nausea came in relentless waves—long, shuddering, gag-like heaves. A little voice inside screamed at me to run, to hide, to never come out again. But my feet wouldn’t move.

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Then, I heard the unmistakable roar of a dirt bike in the distance. I had to go. I *had* to leave. Forcing my legs to obey, I marched down the side of the dune. I avoided looking at the body at all costs, though I still saw no sign of movement. My self-control faltered as I passed him, and I glanced down despite myself. A welt on his forehead was leaking a dark crimson. His eyes were closed—no flutter of breath, no cry for help. I knew, then, that he was gone.

I barely managed to keep from throwing up. Looking back now, I’m glad I didn’t. Who knows what would’ve happened if investigators had found an unrelated pile of vomit by the body of a dead child no older than seven or eight. If there even *was* an investigation.

I ran. I ran until my little legs couldn’t carry me anymore. Then, I was gone. I never went back there. In fact, I didn’t go anywhere for a very long time.