Tap. Tap. Tap.

I opened my right eye and lifted the corner of the quilt up with my hand. The room was still dark, but the light gray sky outside showed the first signs of morning. Rain leaked from the corner of the roof and landed towards the growing puddle below. Crawling underneath the quilt, I felt around with my hands until my fingers wrapped around the carved wooden headrest of the bedframe. When I stuck my bare foot out over the edge and toppled to the floor, I found that it was completely cold in the room.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, before the sound of pouring rain grew heavier.

My glasses had fallen to the floor, and I stooped down on my heels to pick them up. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, but there was pitch black where the hallway was supposed to be. I took a few steps forward and placed an ear against the wall. The house was so still I could hear my own breaths. After waiting for a few moments, I dragged my suitcase out from beneath the bed; it was very heavy, so it took me a while to get it across the room. Once I got the lid open, I fumbled around until I found my blue coat. Gingerly, I brought it up to my nose to smell it—the smell of home, the detergent Mary used, the one that she had neatly folded. It took me a while to button it up all the way by myself with my shaky fingers, but I knew that she would’ve been proud of me for doing so.

Papa’s cap was lying on a nearby stool, and I made sure to put it on, before crouching on the ground at the door again. It creaked when I slowly pushed it open. I flinched. After spitting on the hinges, I tried again, before crawling through the slightly gapped space and feeling my way through the tiny hallway.

I did not know why this strange man kept his shack so incredibly dark. I did not like the dark. The smell had changed from sour to a wet, moldy scent that made it difficult to breathe through. Using my arms, I stretched them out to avoid knocking anything over by accident. Lightning flashed in the distance again, causing me to jump at the sight of Milo’s slumped over figure in the corner of the shack. I couldn’t move for a moment, frozen. He laid next to the embers of a dying fireplace, and he was fast asleep, although seemingly in a feverish spell. Sweat glistened off his pale skin, and dark circles were under his eyes. His chest silently rose and fell, and tucked underneath his arm was a sketchpad.

Leaves scattered the dirt floor beneath us. I maneuvered myself around them, and, after glancing back at him, tugged at the front door and stepped out onto the saggy porch. The sudden rush of cold, wet air nearly knocked me off my feet, and I could see how the plants swayed back and forth, burdened by the falling rain. I shivered, before rushing down the steps and sloshing through knee-deep puddles. The cornfields were a mighty difficult path to get through, but once I saw the edge of the field I kept pushing. Lightning forked the sky again, and I landed on the ground, being covered head to toe in fresh mud.

Some of it had gotten on my glasses. Just as I was planning to clean them up, there was a bark. My eyes widened as I spun around.

Here Boy stood by, wagging his worn tail. I did not know where he had come from. The greyhound’s fur was dripping wet, and his long pink tongue was hanging below, lagging. He barked again, before heading towards me.

I began to sprint towards the woods, accidentally dropping my hat on the ground. He was going to eat me and bite my head off. I was going to be his lunch. I tripped and fell a couple of times over some tree roots, but managed to pick myself and kept going, pushing myself forward though the dense vegetation of leaves and bushes and mangled vines. They wrapped themselves around my arms and legs, and I viciously fought to break myself free from them.

Here Boy’s barking soon turned into growling, snarling. After scrambling over a small rocky ditch, I spotted a stick and grabbed it in a frenzy. My bare feet were bleeding, covered in blisters due to stepping on several sharp stones. I was coated head to toe in mud, and some of it had gotten into my mouth. Here Boy stopped when I pointed my stick at him. He then barred all of his teeth at me.

“Bad,” I said. “Bad dog.”

He then tilted his head to the side, releasing a soft whine. His tail was wagging back and forth, beating hard against the ground, like I had to when I helped cleaned the tapestries and the rugs back at the village. I straightened my posture and held the stick out to him about as firmly as I could. It was kind of hard to do so because I was shivering badly in the rain. But I was to be a soldier one day. And Papa had told me that soldiers had to prepared for anything, whether that be a hurricane or a blizzard. Here Boy barked.

”Sit,” I ordered.

To my great surprise, he did.

”I’m going home,” I told him, my teeth chattering. “I know where Flanders is.”

Here Boy paused to scratch his side for a moment with his left paw. He then trotted over to me like a mule and began to lick my face, rising on his hind legs. I fell to the ground and began to giggle as his rough pink tongue brushed my neck. His large, wet snout sniffed my pockets, and I stroked his fur with my hands, then gave his floppy ears a scratch.

“You’re nothing but a big baby,” I said. “But I think you’re hungry. Don’t worry. We can get you some chicken at the village. Papa has a lot of them. And you can meet my sister.”

I picked up my stick and rushed through the trees, jumping over rocks. He ran by my side, panting, his long ears rising and falling. The sound of thunder made me jump once more. I couldn’t help but sneeze several times, and I wondered if it would’ve helped that I had brought the quilt with me. By now, it was pouring so hard that I could barely see through my glasses. I tried to remember which path we had taken. There were a lot of hills, and despite how cold it was, I was extremely hot, even sweating underneath my muddy coat. Here Boy was barking again, although somehow it was muffled. I rubbed at my ears and continued though a worn field of dandelions. My ankles were sore as I began to crawl up over a towering hill of rocks.

I looked to my right, and Here Boy had vanished. He had rushed through the trees once more, barking loudly at a black figure in the distance. And suddenly, there was complete silence for a moment. No thunder, no trees, no wind. An empty abyss of light.

The rain suddenly stopped.

It didn’t stop the way that I had ever seen before. It was abrupt, frozen—little endless, transparent spheres that rested in the air around me. There were thousands of them—all being held in a specific moment of time. I could see my reflection in all of them, drops of water being released from my coat, my face, my hair. Here Boy rushed towards the shadowy figure. Milo stood at the bottom of the hill. He wasn’t even wearing a coat, but his nose was dripping with blood. His red hair was plastered against his forehead, his large brown eyes finally settling on me. It was the look in them that I wanted to get away from.

He called my name.

I turned away and began to run as fast as I could, ignoring the pain shooting up my blistered feet. The rain fell again once more, and I could hardly breathe as I made my way in the white misty fog. He had done something to Papa. To Stephanie and Mary in Flanders. Now, I was next. I would never see them again. I found myself in a dense layer of trees and stumbled between them, wondering why it was so hot outside. Leaves had landed in my hair, and I spotted an old oak tree whose thick mossy roots had seeped below the surface of the damp earth. I climbed between them, coughing a great deal. My eyes were heavy and my head seemed like it weighed a ton of bricks. I curled up into a ball.

Two warm arms hoisted me off the ground.

* * * * * *

It was very warm. Soapy water clung to my skin, and I felt a sponge against my back, my arms, my neck. My head hurt. I realized I was in a tub, a small one at most, in a wooden place, but not the shack. When I coughed, I spat out rocks that were stuck in my lungs. That only led to me throwing up all over myself, and the water was changed, before I was scrubbed down again with more soap.

I was extremely itchy all over. I couldn’t stop scratching, not even in my sleep, and I think I was crying because my face was wet. I couldn’t remember, exactly. My nails, they became caked with dead flesh and blood, and then my hands were pulled away from my body whenever I tried to scratch. Something thick was rubbed against my flesh, all over my body, and it had a strange, but sweet smell, like mint and lavender. And my skin would burn like it had been lit ablaze by the fire.

All I wanted was to scratch as hard as I could—it was a horrible itchiness, one I had never encountered before. But my arms were withheld again, and I would squirm, then something cold and slimy would be applied on my skin.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on my back in the room where I had left my suitcase in. The mattress was lumpy but rose high from the floor, and I could hear Here Boy’s whining, followed by a concerned lick across my face. Then there was Milo’s voice shooing him away. I turned my head, realizing that a large pillow was supporting my back. It smelled like coffee, and although I could hear the rain outside, the room was brightly lit. I was warm and dry, dressed in my star printed pajamas. My glasses and Papa’s hat were placed on top of my suitcase.

On the right side of the bed, Milo sat on a stool. My left pant leg had been rolled up to my knee. The quilt had been moved to the side, and he was rubbing that strange grease onto my leg, gently massaging it into my skin. It smelled terrible. A whole bowl of it was on the nightstand. His huge, stubby fingers were shiny from the sticky stuff—the nails outlined in dirt. I was stunned to see the multiple red spots that were all over me. His downcast face looked cleaner, like he had shaved, and he wore a faded button down shirt and jeans. He still smelled a lot like cigarettes. I tried to get out of bed to leave, but I could barely raise my arms. A whimper escaped from me.

“Shh, shh, shhh.” Milo placed a damp rag against my forehead. “It’s alright, little one. I’m just going to drain this fever from your head. Get a little circulation going on. That’s all.” He paused, before faintly whispering. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

It seemed like an elephant was sitting on my chest as he continued to vigorously rub my right leg and foot, having it slightly elevated. It was swallowed up by his giant hands. I weakly turned my head to the side, coughing a great deal once more. The act alone wore me out, and some of the stuff stuck up in my throat landed on my chin. He gently dabbed a napkin against my chin, where I spat out a large mouthful of the salty gooey stuff.

“There we go,” he murmured.

I kept hacking up some more and struggled to keep my eyes open as he held a cold cup of water against my lips a few moments later. I gulped it down while still shivering with chills. Once it was empty, he refilled it from a pitcher on the nightstand, and I finished the second cup. His cool fingertips cleared a few strands of hair from my sweaty forehead. When he tried to place a spoonful of bitter syrup in my mouth, I scrunched up my lips and almost spat it out. But it had went down my throat, leaving a tangy sensation behind.

“Alright,” the strange man whispered.

I coughed again. He smelled like cigarettes. He didn’t look at me as I stared at him, rather, continued softly speaking, rubbing that smelly stuff into my skin. A few strands of his hair fell over his brown, swampy eyes.

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“When I was little, I used to steal my mother’s lipstick and draw all over the walls with them. We lived in an apartment then, before she had gotten a better job. I remember how horrified she was when she was wasn’t able to get it off, cuz she worried about the landlord finding out, so she tried to paint over them with the same color as the wall. When we moved out, the guy never noticed. I was a bad kid, y’know. Real bad.” He chuckled.

I didn’t find it to be very funny, and I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this. I wondered if his mother had given him a whooping before. But I thought he did have a way with words.

A soft smile spread across Milo’s face as he moved onto my right leg. He scooped up a dallop of the strange paste and began to massage it into my foot. My eyelids were droopy, and I released an enormous yawn. I didn’t know why I was so sleepy. I had been in bed forever. I wanted to find Papa. I tried to tell him this, but I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. It also hurt a lot to swallow.

“I got chicken pox when I was seven. Always had a messed up immune system. It was like one thing coming directly after the other. Couldn’t catch a break from it.” He rolled down my pant leg and drew the quilt up to my chin. “No more scratching, baby boy. That’ll cause an infection. We don’t want that.”

I coughed once more.

Milo finally studied me. His voice slightly cracked. “If anything happened to you, I wouldn’t know what to do.” He exhaled. “Couldn’t bear to see you run away.”

When I sneezed, the sound echoed across the room. Here Boy had laid down beside my bed. As I wiped my nose with my sleeve, a bowl had appeared in Milo’s hands. He had said some other things, but by the time he had me take a couple sips of chicken broth, my eyelids were too heavy to keep them open for much longer. He faded from my view.

* * * * * * *

Here Boy was licking my foot.

Scrunching up my nose, I turned to the side, but his tongue had reached my heel. This made me draw my leg back underneath the sheets. He barked before wandering out of the room. I raised my head from the pillow—it was a blurry mess of colors without my glasses. The spots all over my body were becoming less red, but very much still there. I frowned and scratched at my arms for a moment, before sliding off the bed. I hadn’t been on my feet in a while, and the room seemed to sway back and forth for a moment.

There were huge, dark spots on the sheets.

I ended up wetting the bed four more times that following week, half asleep and dizzy. I had lost control of my bowels. Not even the sour smell of urine seemed to bother Milo too much as he helped me clean up and rewash the sheets. At this point, I was so weak that it took everything within me to stand, and the following days seemed like a blur. Often, Milo sat by the bed on a stool and continued to try to make me drink more fluids as I slipped in and out of consciousness. The odd thing was that it seemed a lot safer with him around, as the shadows in the room did not come near him.

And early one morning when I awoke, he wasn’t there. The clucking sound of chickens filled the air. I sat up and drew the blankets to my chin, unaccustomed to being in the room by myself. When I climbed out of bed, the whole world seemed to tilt and I nearly fell, but I grabbed onto the wall for support and ran through the dark shack, the shadows nipping directly at my heels. It groaned and creaked under a strong gust of wind.

Sunlight streamed through the dirty windows.

I wandered to the porch outside, still shivering in my pajamas, where the cool breeze met my face and blew my hair upwards. After being inside for so many days, the fresh air was a shock to me. It was in the middle of the day, where the sun was high up in the sky, and there wasn’t a single cloud. I coughed a few more times as I made my way past the worn wooden steps. Chickens pecked at the dirt, and their feathers floated in the air as they squabbled with each other. I wondered how I had managed to get anything from them. I didn’t want their pox. I wanted to give it back to them.

The grass was dry and crunchy against my bare feet as I stumbled near the edge of the cornfield. Their leaves, which had been drenched only moments before, had now shriveled and dried up in the sunlight. After picking at an itchy scab on my elbow, I focused my gaze out in the open. But it was pretty hard to still see without my glasses.

In the distance, Milo was heading back towards the shack, carrying a large bucket of milk from the cowpen. He was covered in dust, sweaty and barefooted like I was. A look of deep alarm crossed his face as he set the bucket down with a thump against the hot ground and immediately picked me up.

”Hey,” he softly said. “Hey.”

I didn’t know why, but I had wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. Being alone in the shack scared me— including all the shadows in the dark room. He was a scary man too, but there was something about his towering stance that made things less terrifying. Still, I was attempting to understand what was so scary about him. He looked quite stunned, and I think his eyes were a bit glazed over, but he gently patted my back before returning my embrace. I buried my face in his shoulder.

“You’re supposed to be in bed. Come on.”

I rubbed at my bleary eyes. “Don’t wanna.”

”Why?”

With my left hand, I pointed at the shack. “There’s ghosts in there. In the rooms.”

”Ah, you don’t have to be afraid, buddy,” he whispered. “I won’t let nothing happen to you.”

“But the ghosts are there.” My voice was different, a lot more raspy. I had slept for a thousand years at this point. And I hated how sluggish the rest of my limbs was. “I’m not tired.”

Milo felt my forehead and neck with the back of his hand. “You’re still pretty warm,” he murmured. A deep look of guilt crossed his face. “That cough of yours hasn’t cleared up yet. You need more rest, little guy.”

I shook my head. “It’s too hot inside.”

He paused, before silently carrying me to the steps in the shade in front of the shack and sat down with me in his huge arms. “It is rather hot, isn’t it? We ought to cool off.”

I was so exhausted I leaned my head against his left shoulder—the faint smell of cigarettes fresh against my nose. Milo hesitated for a moment before slowly placing his hand on top of my head, ruffling my hair. I noticed the deep scars on his arms. I wondered if he believed in ghosts. A cool gust of wind blew against us, relieving the sweat that had glued my pajamas to my skin.

”No fighting today, are we, little one?” he softly asked. “Of course, you’ve just finished a marathon with all that running you did the other day. I think you’re about worn out.”

I said nothing.

“Yeah, chicken pox isn’t too fun.” He studied the dark red spots on my arms. “These look a lot better now. That paste must really be doing its job. Just don’t scratch them.”

“I look like a giraffe.”

Milo smiled—the dimples appearing on his face. “Kind of. But they are clearing up.”

I looked up at him.

His brown eyes were focused, quiet, gazing at the cornfields. “I know you miss your pa.”

I didn’t reply.

”But that’s not an excuse for you to run away in the dark, to be in the woods like that by yourself. You ought to know better—there’s all sorts of wild beasts out there. You had me worried to death. So once you’re your old self again, we’ll need to talk about what you did and the consequences that will follow.”

”Run away?” I asked.

”Bad. It’s bad to run away. You don’t do that.”

His voice was stern. A chill ran down my spine. Consequences. Of course, I expected to get in trouble. That word. He sounded a lot like Papa. He didn’t look mad though, and his voice had a broken tone to it. He cleared his throat and patted my shoulder.

”Understand?”

I nodded.

Milo glanced at Here Boy, who was lying under a tree, half asleep. “Had he not led me to you, things wouldn’t be as they are now.” His voice settled into a whisper. “So I need you to use your words.”

”Words?” I whispered back.

“Yes. Your words. Just like you’ve done now. You can always tell me what is on your mind. I’m here to listen to you.” He finally made eye contact with me as his voice cracked. “You can tell me why you are afraid of me.”

But I didn’t know how to. All I knew was that Aiden had gone for weeks without lunch at school, and that Stephanie and Mary needed help with the apartment. My gaze focused on the metal band on his finger. He slowly removed it and held it out for me in the middle of his dirty palm. As my fingers wrapped around it, I couldn’t help but examine the tarnished surface. I held it up to the light to watch it catch a certain glow.

“Pretty,” I whispered.

Milo adjusted his body sideways on the step, his back against the wall of the shack. I fought back a yawn, my left cheek pressed against his heartbeat, still fidgeting with the ring in my hands. A deep, quiet smile was on his lips as I attempted to cast a spot of light on the walls of the porch with the ring.

“Who gave this to you?” I asked.

“We can have breakfast outside.” He didn’t answer my question. “I made some cornbread earlier today. I reckon it’s time you try to get something into you anyway. You haven’t been eating properly ever since you’ve arrived. You can’t live off soup and crackers forever.”

My stomach turned at the thought of food, but he had already reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrapped item. A strange, yellow substance became visible in his hands as he broke off a large piece of it. I flinched.

”Please? You need to eat. How are you going to help me out here if you don’t eat? You’re already so very small and….” he sighed. “I don’t want you to get any weaker. I don’t make pig slop, y’know. You’ve got to be hungry, buddy. It’s cornbread. Good stuff for the soul.”

I studied him.

“It’s alright,” Milo murmured. “Come on. You think you could try this for me? I think you’ll like it. It’s best with some molasses too.” A sparkle settled in dark brown eyes as he gestured to the bucket. “And maybe we can get you some milk to wash it down.”

A lump rose to my throat. I frowned as he attempted to hold it out to me, and I turned my head away. “Yucky.”

Milo exhaled and lowered his hand. A lopsided smile came on his lips. “How? You don’t even know what it tastes like. You’re a picky eater, aren’t you? I wonder how Mar—”

I gave him a confused look as he abruptly stopped talking. Mary? How did he know my sister’s name? I doubt that Papa even shared that information with him. He adjusted me in his arms so that I was sitting sideways. I gazed at the giant square of cornbread he held.

“Alright, buddy. Come on. One bite.”

I wrinkled my nose.

”Please? I promise it’ll be good. Just because you look like a giraffe doesn’t mean you have to eat like one.”

He raised it to my mouth just as I was about to protest. The texture was soft, but also sweet and filling. To my surprise, it reminded me of cake. As I was chewing, I gazed at the rest of the giant cornbread square.

“See?” he murmured, holding it up to me again. “It’s not so bad.”

With my hand, I slowly reached over and tore off another piece, cramming it into my mouth. It was the strangest thing I had ever eaten—fluffy but slightly crispy around the edges. The square slowly disappeared as I gradually devoured the entire thing. I wanted to ask for more, but I was too afraid to.

By the time I was licking the crumbs off my fingers, Milo chuckled and crumbled the empty paper up with his hands. I picked up his ring lying on the porch floor, wanting to shoot more bright spots on the walls as the light reflected off of it. I tried not to look at him too much, but there was a raw, heavy gaze in his eyes as he observed me, like he was in awe that I existed. The aftertaste of the sweet spices of the cornbread stuck between my teeth. He suddenly picked me up again and rose to his feet, causing me to nearly drop his ring. He placed it back on his finger and moved down the steps. His steps were slow, careful.

I studied him. What a strange man.

”There’s a tree not too far from here with the biggest mangoes you’ve ever seen,” Milo whispered. ”I say you could definitely use one. They’re about the size of my hand.”

My mouth was watering. “Big ones?”

“Mhmm. And after that, I can tell you some stories. You’re not quite well enough to do any work yet, so this can be our rest day.” He tapped my nose with his index finger. “Since you’re not really sleepy, you ought to get a better look around this place anyway.” He winked. “You might just fall asleep, though.”

“Not me. I can stay awake.” I widened my eyes. “You know stories?”

Milo smiled. “A lot of ‘em.”

“Will the ghosts follow us?” I asked, glancing back at the shack. “I don’t want them to.”

“No, they don’t come out here. They don’t mess with me. And they won’t mess with you, either. I’d make them piss their underwear if they ever tried to scare you. I’ll protect you.”

He did believe in ghosts! Him being the first grown up who had ever told me that they were real made me sure that I had encountered them before.

“Ghosts wear underwear?”

“Yup. With polka dots and stripes. I saw one who had on a pair of long johns with hearts all over them.”

I burst out giggling. Milo grinned and adjusted me in his left arm as we went through the cornstalks. His red hair was extremely bright in the sunlight—-almost as orange as mine.