Shadow at the Gate

On my way home from middle school, I spot what might be a possible shortcut to my home. Checking both ways, I cross to the other side of the street and kick the gravel where a sidewalk should be. A canal runs through a field and under the train tracks. Maybe I can go under the train tracks through the canal. That can save me a mile of walking five days a week, technically 180 days a year. That potential shortcut is worth exploring for one day.

I drape my backpack on the wooden post so I won't tear it going under the barbed wire. After all, Aunt Cora will be mad if I tear my new backpack. But my clothes? Well, they are hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs. Plenty more from where they come.

My hands widen a spot in between two barb wire rows. Ouch. I pull back my thumb and wipe the drop of blood in the prairie grass. Is it worth more blood to save time walking home? Sure, why not?

I kneel, then straddle, and do the limbo through the barb wire gap.

Plop.

I land on my side with one shoelace caught on a barb. Hm. I yank the shoelace off only to find my dirty blonde strands wisping in the breeze. Well, I'm leaving a DNA trail all over if Aunt Cora has trouble finding me later.

Gingerly, I lift my backpack from the other side and lug the weight back over my shoulders. What if I can't find a way home through the canal and under the train tracks? I shrug the backpack halfway off, but what if I am successful? I leave the burden on my back.

The water slugs along the canal, not quite a mudhole yet in August. So my foot tests the path along the side, most likely a game trail, which is still dry enough. My feet snap a few twigs from the invasive Russian olive trees. Does it matter if anyone hears me?

I follow the canal until I reach the fence before the train tracks. I'll have to bend my head to get under the bridge. I lean down and walk on the dried pond scum to the other side. It's about 100 feet. With a dusty backpack, I emerge on the other side to see a wall. The park must be on the other side. Dang. Doesn't look like I can get through.

I look back and forth along the cement wall until a backyard fence appears on the south side. I go along it and find a gap between the cement and someone's backyard fence. I mentally measure a several inch gap. Maybe I can get through.

First, I toss my backback into the edge of the park's parking lot. It lands with a thud. Probably not a good idea now that I think about the Chromebook. Hopefully, it's okay. Aunt Cora won't be happy if I ruined in the first month of school. After all, she didn't buy insurance on it. And I'd have to do more chores to earn the money.

I wedge myself through the gap when I hear cloth tear. Oh crap. I tease my caught sleeve off the chain-link fence. It may be a hand-me-down, but I'll have to hide this shirt now. Or repair it myself. I jimmy my scrawny body through.

I made it! I shaved a mile off my walk home. I have yet to find out if it was worth it--depending on how much damage happened to the Chromebook.

What do you think so far? This is a rough draft and I know it needs more sensory details added. I need to add more purpose to her journey. And a name. And much more. Thoughts?