The Boy in the Woods
<p>I’m ten years old, playing down in the creek at the base of our driveway.</p>
<p>It’s winter 1974, and the woods surrounding the creek are wet from fresh rain. The acidic flux of old oak trees fills the air with a soft vinegar aroma, and the lichens smell earthy and woodsy, like a damp Harris Tweed jacket.</p>
<p>I roll off the slippery bark of a felled tree, and return to my yellow Tonka truck, sitting half-buried in the mud along the creek bed. An assortment of metal Matchbox toy cars are scattered in the leaves, along with some plastic toy soldiers.</p>
<p>The light is fading, and I await the call of my father’s booming baritone, yelling “Johnny, Johnny!” He normally calls for me, just before dusk, when Mom is preparing dinner. But he doesn’t call.</p>
<p>The air is silent.</p>
<p>It’s getting dark.</p>
<p>I trudge up the deer trail, through the brush, careful to avoid the poison ivy that has led to itchy rashes in the past. I crest the last of the trail and emerge on our front lawn. The grass is strangely dry and brown, despite the winter rain.</p>
<p>I hear scrub jays calling one another and playing in the woods behind our house. I make my way to the brick patio leading to my parent’s bedroom door but discover that it’s locked.</p>
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