Alone

Dark. Damp. Still drier than it was outside.

He knelt against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed, right side of his head and body pressed against the wall. It was as if he wanted to melt into the old wooden boards and disappear.

The boy had been running for three days now. It hadn't been so bad at first. He'd wandered through the forest watching the rabbits, birds, and deer. He'd felt free, a world of possibilities open.

Then the hunger had set in. He'd packed a few bottles of water and light snacks like peanut butter crackers and trail mix, but nothing more substantial.

His plan had been to pack about a week's worth of food in his pack and to carry his fishing pole. He would catch cat fish in the stream and cook them over a fire started from sticks, leaves, and the little match and tinder box he carried in his pocket.

The boy knew wild water could make you sick. He'd known to pack a small metal tin. When the bottled water ran out, he would collect water from the stream with the little tin. He'd boil it over the fire to clean it, then let it cool so he'd have fresh water to drink.

At eight years old, he knew he'd be fine on his own. After all, he'd had to rely on himself for the past few years anyway.

He knew these things--he knew how to prepare, how to live off the land.

Except there hadn't been time. He'd meant to start stashing supplies a little at a time so as not to arouse suspicion. After a couple of weeks, he'd have enough. He could leave and be set for a while.

But then his father had come home drunk again. At close to midnight, the old truck labeled farm use had pulled up beside the front door of the little farmhouse. His father had fallen out of the truck and hit the front door, knocking it open. The man had dragged himself up and started stumbling up the stairs, slurring and yelling.

The boy had heard his father come home. He'd been laying in bed, watching the stars twinkle out the window and dreading his father's eventual return.

Sometimes after working in the fields all day, the man would pass out in the truck in the tavern parking lot. Other times, he'd make it home, but pass out in the driveway. He'd be grumpy and hung over the next morning, but that wasn't so bad.

Then, there were times like this night. Times where his father would come home drunk and angry, looking for a way to release his frustrations and fury at the world. Lately, those times had become more frequent.

The boy had started to quake when he heard his father fall against the door. He pulled the covers over his head and held his breath, hoping his father would stumble to the couch or the downstairs bedroom.

But when the man started yelling and bouncing against the walls while climbing the stairs, he knew what was coming. His left eye was swollen shut from only a couple days before.

He'd hoped to have more time to prepare his escape. He wasn't ready yet. But he was terrified. He couldn't go through that again.

The boy had thrown the covers off, grabbed the pack from under his bed, and hurtled toward the window. He'd shoved the window open and tossed the pack out onto the ground. He'd climbed out the window, hung onto the sill, and dangled as close as possible to the ground before letting go.

When he'd hit the ground, he had felt one of his ankles twist. He'd also heard his bedroom door fly open and crash into the wall. Fighting the pain, the boy had grabbed his pack and hopped, stumbled, and run into the dark woods, his father hollering out the window after him.

Despite the pain in his ankle, he had run into the forest as fast as he could, desperate to get as far away as possible from his house, his father, and his old life.

That first night, he'd just kept moving, constantly pressing forward until the sky began to lighten and the sun had peeked over the horizon.

Along with the early morning twill of the birds, he'd heard the faint sound of trickling water. Following the sound, he'd found the stream, the water quietly splashing over the rocks. He drank bottled water from his pack, then nestled among the roots of an old oak tree growing along the banks of the stream. Leaning against the tree, he'd fallen asleep in the warm sunlight.

After waking a few hours later, the boy had continued his journey. The pain in his ankle had subsided--he'd just turned it, no sprain or break.

The next two days and nights had passed the same way--munching on the snacks, drinking the bottled water, watching the deer, walking toward his new life. He'd always loved listening to the sounds of the forest--the leaves rustling, the birds singing, the way the water lapped over the stones in the stream, the cicadas, and the late night chirping of the frogs.

Still, he'd felt guilty when he thought of his father. They'd had a good life once, before his mother had passed. His father had taught him to swim, fish, hunt, and tend a garden. They had grown everything from tomatoes to pole beans to squash to pumpkins. He and his parents had laughed and been very happy in the little farmhouse.

Then his mother had died. His father took to drinking and staying out all hours of the night. He had lost his mother, then he'd lost his father, too. His father's body may have been alive, but his spirit was dead and gone.

The boy missed his father, but he'd accepted that he was never coming back. After years of hoping and praying, he'd eventually realized that the happy life they'd shared was gone forever, a distant memory. If he wanted to be happy, he'd have to create a new life for himself somewhere else.

By the third day, the hunger had set in. The boy had eaten all of the snacks in his pack, and he hadn't been able to grab his fishing pole the night he ran away. He'd eaten wild blackberries, but that hadn't been enough to quell his hunger.

Then, just before night fall, the summer storm had started. Thoroughly soaked and hungry, knowing that he didn't have enough supplies, the boy was miserable. He'd sat on the wet ground that was quickly turning to mud and leaned against a tree, hoping the branches would provide shelter from the pelting rain. A bolt of lightening lit up the sky and was followed by the deafening crash of thunder. The boy had known he couldn't stay against the tree. He needed to find cover.

That's when he saw it--an old, dilapidated barn in the middle of a field. All the paint had worn off long ago, the old wooden boards graying in the elements.

The boy had run across the muddy field and ducked inside the old barn. There was nothing inside--no hay, no horses, no signs of life at all. The roof had partially collapsed on one side. It was damp and foreboding, but at least he wasn't outside in the rain anymore.

Cold and wet, he'd curled up into a ball and leaned against the old wooden boards. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

The boy awoke the next morning to a bright, sunny sky. The beams of sunlight streamed in through the collapsed roof of the old barn.

The boy rose and grabbed his pack. He walked to the door of the barn and looked out. In one direction was the forest; in the other, a field. He walked to the field, wading through the barley grain. Once he reached the top of a rolling hill, he looked down and saw a farmhouse with a kitchen garden full of ripe sun gold cherry tomatoes.

He made his way to the garden, thankful to have any food at all. He popped the ripe orange tomatoes into his mouth, enjoying the burst of sweetness.

An older woman came out of the farmhouse.

"Why, you're the little boy who went missing," she said. "You must be starving. Come inside, honey, and I'll fix you a proper breakfast."

The boy thought of running back to the forest, but the thought of eggs, bacon, and biscuits was too enticing. He followed the woman inside and sat down at her kitchen table while she talked and cooked. When she set a huge plate of food in front of him, he ate gratefully.

Before the boy finished his breakfast, the sheriff appeared at the door of the farmhouse. The woman let him in and led him to the kitchen.

"Time to get you home, son" the sheriff told the boy. "Your father will be glad to have you home."