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five
demure | reserved; modest
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IF RELAXATION WAS FLEETING, sleep had gone into hiding. The weather radio had lost control from the twister, Eileen had assured us. A semi-plausible excuse. Normal minds wouldn't have assumed the worst, such as entities that waited for stormy nights to make their move—like looking for a lost corpse. Wailerun residents were raised by the strange and supernatural, but even the most stubborn succumbed to more "rational" reasoning from time to time.

And with a storm's devastation, it was easier for others to blame it for anything that went awry.

After a night of little sleep, exhaustion's plague nearly convinced me as well. Bitter coffee grounded my brain in reality. It slid down my throat smoothly, though its sharp taste reminded me of the dirt I'd spent so long surrounded by. Perhaps it was a reminder of my true home.

If so, I wasn't not sure I wanted to return home.

The sun was warm. The grass was vibrant and soft. Even the morning wind carried the smell of lilac and dew. Wailerun's beauty had been unleashed in the storm's aftermath, and if one could look past the twisted-off trees and shingles littering the yard, it was truly a sight to behold.

I watched it all from the wraparound porch, snuggling into a sweater with long sleeves that draped my wrists and sipping my warm liquid dirt.

"Hawth! C'mon!" Teagan's voice echoed from inside the house, followed by the quick succession of pattering footsteps through the living room.

I hid a smile behind my ceramic mug—hand crafted by a family friend, Eileen had assured me before the grief overwhelmed her eyes. The expression had been enough to tell me that the family friend was perhaps someone with more meaning. I flashed back to Stephanie, a name uttered softly as if they didn't want the air to recall it on whispering winds. But the breeze would bleed their secrets into the forest until it fluttered away like a moth from its cocoon.

Air rushed past my side. Teagan and Hawthorn burst through the screen door in a game of chase, where the large dog's strides were subdued as if intentionally letting the young boy win.

"Teag!" Eileen hollered as the small boy raced around her, nearly knocking the rake from her hand. "Watch where you're running! There's too much debris to be messing around!"

The boy only nodded and laughed as if acknowledging her while also proving he hadn't heard a word from her lips. He didn't seem to have any issue avoiding the debris; it was a game for him, dodging shingles and leaping over tall clusters of branches. Though he lacked sleep like the rest of us, it didn't slow his stride.

"God, wish I had that much energy after a night in the cellar."

I startled at Locke's voice. He leaned against the doorframe, looking out the screen panel with a chuckle. Steam curled from a generic mug as he sipped his coffee.

The hinges squealed in protest as he pushed open the screen door. Dark rings painted half-moons beneath his eyes. He rubbed at the scruff on his face and let out a yawn that stretched from his sock-clad toes. Hair already damp with sweat from a half morning of cleanup, he looked as if he'd already been outside for days. After taking another swig from his mug, he slid his feet into the work boots left discarded beside my chair.

"I'm twenty-one, and this kid already runs circles around me." Locke set his mug on the glass-topped patio table and plopped into the chair across from me. He pulled his ankle atop his other knee to tie the first boot. "Don't have kids so young. Adds thirty years at least."

His smile crinkled the skin beside his eyes, so crisply green in the sunlight that they resembled the jade beads Eileen wore around her wrists.

I placed my mug beside his and reached for the chalkboard in my lap. After a quick scribble, I held it up.

How old is Teeghen?

Locke set his ankle down and lifted the other to begin tying the laces. "Just turned five. Steph and I had him in high school. Practically kids ourselves." Sitting back in his chair, he lowered his other foot. "Her mom was furious that she wanted to keep the baby. I begged my folks to help her out, and when her mom kicked her to the curb, she stayed with us."

A bubble of sympathy rose in my chest. My fingers hesitated as I failed to think of the words to jot down.

"May I?" Locke held out a hand for my chalk.

When I passed it over, he wrote on the board with penmanship both quick and lovely, as if he'd made a habit of perfecting his strokes.

Teagan.

A blush crept up my neck, and Locke shook his head.

"Don't feel bad," he said. "We pronounced your name wrong, and I sure as hell wouldn't have spelled it right if you could've spoken it. Everyone forgets the 'e' on mine." He handed the chalk back to me. "We're human."

I smiled, wiping the words from my board with the sleeve of my rosy sweater.

I won't forget. It's lovely.

"And if you do, it's cool." Locke picked up his mug for a drawn-out sip. His eyes drifted out to the yard, where his mother struggled to rake up leaves without his father wandering into the brush. "I better let her tap out. God knows where we'll find him this time if he gets out of her sight."

A floral breeze ruffled his golden brown hair. Strands fluttered into those ivy eyes until he brushed them away with fingers much too gentle for their calloused appearance. Nothing about him was rough; he was pure, unfiltered serenity.

With one last gulp of liquid energy, he set his mug on the table and stood, stretching his back.

"If you need anything," he said, "just give a holler."

I nodded robotically. It was the twentieth time this morning that someone had repeated the same sentence, as if hollering was even an option for me. As if my vocal cords didn't feel like stringy, black moss and severed ends.

Warmth splashed Locke's smile. He brushed his sweat-slicken hair behind his ears and meandered down the porch steps.

"Caila!" Teagan's high-pitched call drifted from the yard. His steps hadn't slowed, even as Hawthorn panted in his wake. "Caila! Come play!"

I shook my head, but only after pursing my lips together to conceal a laugh. The young boy's eyes filled with delight at the thought of a new playmate. For someone of his age, of his knowledge, everything new was exciting and wonderful. An additional person was his next friend. Undiscovered locations brimmed with imaginative possibility.

It made my chest heavy when his smile drooped, and realization crossed his face that I wasn't going to run the clearing with him. But his disappointment was short-lived. The frown hardly formed when he caught sight of his furry companion once more and let out a joyous laugh.

Yards away, Eileen was more than willing to trade shifts with her son. By the time he was halfway across the clearing, she had her work gloves removed and the rake held out for him.

Birdsong followed Eileen's steps to the porch, as sweet and uplifting as her smile.

"Why don't we go inside, sweetheart?" She dusted her hands—somehow still streaked with dirt—against her bermuda shorts.

I tilted my head. Something in the older woman's eyes didn't meet her expression, as if her kind gesture was more insistence than offer. Still, I picked up my board and chalk, leaving my mug of bitter displeasure behind as Eileen held the door open.

The storm had done nothing for the humidity. Even while the air conditioners and oscillating fans worked overtime, moisture hung around us like an iron curtain as we stepped inside the house.

Eileen swung the screen closed behind us before also shutting the hardwood door. "Damn boy... air conditioning won't work if he doesn't keep this shut." She shook her head. "Some days, you'd swear he was raised in the cellar."

Or he had a lot on his mind.

As if taking care of his father and son weren't enough, he now had an unfamiliar woman to keep tabs on. How he did it with optimistic light radiating through his weariness, I couldn't even fathom.

Soft violin music greeted us in the kitchen. The old radio crackled and popped from its perch on the windowsill, serenading us with music that sounded much older than it was on the ancient box. Somber, shy notes fluttered across my consciousness. A melody soothing yet uplifting, like twilight under the stars with steaming tea and a book's company.

Eileen stepped over to the sink and flicked on the water. "Did Locke tell you about the roads?"

My brows lifted. Even earlier that morning, when he stayed behind at breakfast to ensure I had company in my slow-eating, his conversations had ranged from silly stories about Teagan to asking about my music taste. He'd even changed the radio after discovering my love for instrumentals, swaying to the cello that had bathed our conversation in its melancholy song.

The last thing we'd discussed was the date. It was late May, he'd explained, brows furrowed as if I was an unearthed relic. Much to my relief, the sound of clattering books in the living room had sent him to check on Sylas before he could prod about my surprise.

It'd been eighteen months since I was first buried.

Despite our drawn-out conversation, however, he'd mentioned nothing about the roads.

"We got lucky here." Eileen sighed, scrubbing at the dirt beneath her nails. "Minimal damage, compared to everywhere else... everywhere we can see, at least." She quieted for a moment before turning off the faucet with her elbow and grabbing a paisley-patterned hand towel. "There's heavy debris on both sides of the road. It's like the funnel carved a path straight around us. No getting in or out, it seems."

My heartbeat quickened. We'd planned to head out in the afternoon and report my disappearance to the local police station. Though it puzzled me exactly how we would explain my predicament, let alone keep the locals from stirring in panic—if they'd believe me at all.

No one leaves the woods.

A chill raced down my spine at the voice's memory. I closed my eyes for a moment, sucking in a deep breath to bury it all deeper, harder.

Eileen placed the towel back on its copper-plated ring. "We tried to use the landlines, but..." She drummed the edge of the sink with calloused fingers. "The storm must have done something to them."

The chalkboard became heavier in my grip. My eyes darted from the plugged-in radio to the microwave's digital clock. The air conditioner's hum filled my senses even from the other room. I scrawled on the board despite the unease settling in my bones.

Cell phones? Wi-Fi?

"Don't remind me," said Eileen with the hint of a laugh. "Signal's no good out here, and we don't have internet. Our B&B was meant to be an escape from it all—a little solace from overstimulating devices and... what in God's name did Locke call them? Ogres?"

I bit my lip to suppress a smile before writing: Trolls.

"Trolls. Right. Locke's been on me to change our ways ever since we closed the doors."

Ever since Sylas' mind slipped, if I had to guess. I only wiped my sleeve across the board to clear my words. Pain whisked through Eileen's eyes with the force of a thunderhead, and I couldn't bring myself to mention her husband's state.

Eileen continued anyway, leaving no pause for written interjection. "I promise, we'll get you to town as soon as we can. Whoever did this to you, whatever sick backwoods possum-snatcher put you in that box... they won't get away with this."

More empty promises. I scuffed my lavender flip-flop against the floorboard.

"Until the roads get cleared," said Eileen, though I wished the silence remained unfilled, "you should work on your statement. I'll grab you one of my blank journals. Write down everything you remember." She stepped closer, placing her hands gently on my shoulders. "I know it can't be easy to think about, but it's going to help, okay?"

The optimism was almost laughable. As if pitting small-town officers against Wailerun's malicious force would save my skin. It was more likely we'd be hailed as sacrifices, buried somewhere far worse than a chamber in the bridge.

Eileen had no understanding of what lay beyond her homestead, or if she did, she chose to ignore it the way my memories had as well.

And so, I nodded, but not in understanding.