The Barn

Chapter One - Tuesday

Old Tom stood on his porch, squinting in the morning light. A few puffy clouds dotted the sky, a crisp summer breeze rustled the trees, and some critter stirred in the underbrush. A glorious morning to most. Not Old Tom.

The sun blinded him, the clouds blighted the sky, and the critter probably stole some of his turnips as it snuck away. Yes, a gloriously awful day, full of nosy neighbors and pesky boys playing on his land. Just to seal the deal, it was Tuesday. Old Tom scowled. Grocery delivery day.

He turned toward his door, a few choice words for the day on the tip of his tongue. As his hand touched the old screen door handle, a horrendous noise ripped through the quiet air. Old Tom cringed, his back and leg aching with the motion. Pain sliced his head right behind his ears, which he covered with his hands to block out the awful noise.

Turning, he saw his barn. A giant barn older even than the house, filled with memories he really would rather not face. Especially on Tuesday.

Growling, Old Tom lurched toward the barn. The sound continued, starting low and ending in an ear-splitting crescendo. He knew the sound: a barn owl. Something had riled it up, and Old Tom knew what it was.

That Quinn boy was in his barn again.

----

Quinn leaned against the wooden planks of Old Tom’s ancient barn. No, an ancient treasure trove. Inside lay a treasure hunter’s greatest dream: endless mysteries to be unearthed. It just took a dedicated explorer to find the good stuff hidden among the old man’s junk.

Quinn paused, listening for any sound of the old man. The morning sun warmed his face and a soft breeze tousled his brown hair. Overhead, a few marshmallow clouds drifted along a crisp blue sky. A perfect morning to find some treasure. He had his treasure hunter shirt, his treasure hunter pack. Yep, a perfect treasure hunting day.

Quinn heard nothing save for a small creature scampering through the bushes. The old man would be angry about that. He was always angry, especially at him and his friends. Always yelling at them to stay away, to leave him alone. Well, Quinn didn’t want to talk to Old Cranky Pants today. He never really wanted to talk to him. Just look inside his barn.

He peeked around the front corner. The front door opened, and Old Tom came out on the porch. Quinn leaned back, frustrated at the old man. Weren’t old people supposed to sleep all the time? What was he doing up this early?

Backtracking along the massive structure, Quinn passed several newly boarded up entrances. Old Tom had sealed all the entrances last week and threatened to call the police if he caught Quinn there again. He smiled. Quinn had no intention of being caught.

He made his way to the loose planks in the back wall. All treasure troves had a secret entrance, and Quinn had loosened those planks to make sure this one was no different. Heart pounding with anticipation, he peeked along the barn’s far side. Old Tom, wearing his usual scowl, was going inside. Smiling, eager to start, Quinn pushed the planks aside and started to climb in.

Then he heard the sound.

----

Chapter Two - Distress

Old Tom stepped into the barn and started forward, blinking the morning light away. He didn’t need to see to move around. He knew it all well, having placed it there himself. He just didn’t want to remember it; what it all represented.

Stopping near one of many old tractors, he looked up into the rafters. Wherever the creature was, it would be up there. The hardest place for him to get, so it would definitely be up there. It was just that kind of day.

“Darn you, boy,” he growled. “I know you’re in here.

Old Tom made his way deeper, dodging around all of his stuff mentally and physically. The sound got louder, but something changed. A hissing sound joined in the cacophony, like a snake hissing at a predator. Two of them? One injured, the other warning away something nearby?

No, that would be too easy. Tuesdays were never easy.

Someone was near the creature.

“Get out of my barn!” he yelled, grabbing a dusty ladder.

Old Tom spied some movement and placed the ladder nearby. Then he climbed up, trying to see where the pesky kid had hidden himself now. The owl was clearly perturbed by the boy, there was no other reason. Maybe the boy had been messing with the owl and injured it. It would be just like Quinn to do this, probably just to spite him. The boy didn’t respect Old Tom, always sneaking into his barn and nosing around stuff he had no right to be looking at. Prying into Old Tom’s life. Pretending the barn was filled with treasure like some cave in one of those loud adventure movies.

Old Tom craned his head around, trying to catch sight of the troublesome boy. Suddenly, the bird, now just a few feet away, let out a loud screech. He jumped, his hand grasping at the ladder but only brushing it. A moment of panic gripped Old Tom as everything around him slowed. The thought he was falling just flitted across his mind when he hit something hard.

------

Quinn slipped into the barn, moving along the wall toward a nearby ladder. He recognized the sound: the screech of a barn owl. A quick, ragged screeching, punctuated with a random hiss. The bird was distressed, hissing to scare something away. The screech sounded ragged, like it took effort.

He climbed the ladder quickly, trying to get high enough to spy the poor bird. Quinn couldn’t see it, but he spied movement along the far wall.

He moved across the rafters, keeping an eye out for anything that might be distressing the bird. Dust filled the air, the smell of machinery, dirt, and wood filling his nostrils. Looking down, he saw an old tractor he’d never seen before, along with shelf after shelf of boxes and junk. So much to look through, to learn about.

Quinn paused, listening as the owl continued to screech. Had he heard something else? Something moving along ground? Another animal? Had it jumped down, giving up on the stricken bird?

He climbed around a support beam, stepping onto a large rafter. The injured bird lay in a sunbeam on a set of planks about 100 feet away. The spotted feathers and heart-shaped face stood out in the bright light: definitely a barn owl. It jerked around, one wing tucked at a weird angle, screeching and hissing in turn.

Quinn moved closer, keeping an eye out for any other movement. He eased himself onto a set of planks hung parallel to the bird. Beyond it, he could just make out a ladder leaning against the planks. Something stirred below him, something large.

Suddenly, a familiar voice ripped through the barn, startling the screeching owl into momentary silence.

“Get out of my barn!”

----

Chapter Three - Injury

Pain ripped through Old Tom’s back and side. His vision darkened, and he struggled for air. For a moment, he realized he couldn’t feel the old wound in his knee. Then he wondered if he could feel anything in his legs. His lungs clenched, trying to get air. When he finally succeeded, his side burned with each ragged breath.

Then he saw the face. That boy climbing in the rafters overhead. He had scared the bird. He knew it.

“You did this,” he screamed at the boy

Each word sent a shudder of agony through him. Agony that boy had caused by disturbing that bird. Old Tom struggled to yell again, but the effort proved too much.

The boy’s face disappeared back the way it had come, fleeing. Of course, he’s fleeing, Old Tom thought.

Then everything faded to black.

----

Quinn froze, shafts of light making it hard to see much beyond the bird. He peered around, trying to find the old man. Then, he heard something else: a loud thud, like something heavy hitting the ground.

Quinn leaned over, hanging his head down below the planks. There, crumpled in a heap at the foot of the ladder, lay Old Tom. Quinn shifted forward, his face moving into the light. He couldn’t see if the man was injured.

The old man jerked, his mouth opening and closing. Uncertain what to do, Quinn froze. Should he go help him? Would he just get angry with Quinn for being in his barn?

“You did this,” the old man’s voice called out, leaning up and pointing at Quinn.

The old man’s eyes fluttered, then he collapsed back out of sight.

----

Chapter Four - Help

Quinn moved back out of the sunlight, trying to get a better look. Old Tom lay still now, eyes closed. Quinn hesitated, uncertain what to do.

Even injured, Old Tom was the same mean old man, blaming Quinn for his bad luck. He shifted, trying to decide between checking on Old Tom or just getting help? He moved to the end of the planks and looked straight down a the old man lying mostly hidden in the shadow.

He couldn’t just go get help. The police would want to know more. Eying the still panicked bird, Quinn moved across the gap. He saw no obvious injury, but the man’s leg lay at an odd angle. He quickened his pace, careful not to fall and make matters worse.

Over the owl’s protestations, Quinn made it to the ladder. The bird’s wing hung at an angle similar to the old man’s leg below. He wanted to take care of it, but he knew it had to wait. Quinn moved onto the ladder, and the owl hissed at him as he ducked out of sight.

Quinn dropped down next to Old Tom and his stomach lurched. Blood pooled next to the old man, and he spied something protruding from his side. He took a deep breath, recalling his scout training and looking for something to stop the bleeding. As he looked, the old man stirred, grabbing at his arm.

“Please, help me,” he wheezed.

----

Old Tom recognized the feeling of dying. He’d been injured enough in the war to know that feeling. Back then, he’d fought it. He had a reason to come back. Now, he had no reason. Maybe it was better to just die. Then life couldn’t annoy him anymore.

Old Tom felt something move nearby. Reaching out, he felt something warm with his hand. He gripped it, holding on tight. He tried opening his eyes, but they refused to cooperate.

“Please, help me,” he said.

He wasn’t sure he’d managed to speak out loud and started to say it again.

“I’m trying to, sir,” a voice answered.

He recognized the voice. Was it that young female officer he’d met last week? He had to make sure she knew what happened. If he was going to die, he’d be darned if he didn’t make sure that boy paid for his crime.

“It’s that Quinn boy,” Old Tom said. “He frightened an owl, and I fell when it screeched.”

He struggled to stay awake, struggled to open his eyes.

“Arrest him when you find him.”

He tried to say more, that the boy was probably in the rafters watching them. He felt his life seeping away, the energy to live fading.

“Please, help me,” he tried to say.

Blackness stole the words away.

----

“Please, help me,” the old man said, his voice faltering.

The man thought he was a police officer come to help. His head shifted and he fell silent, his breathing slow and ragged. Time was running out.

The old man probably had a first aid kit in the house. There was a phone there, too. He could call for help. First, he had to slow the bleeding. With nothing available, he took off his explorer’s pack and pulled off his shirt. He stared at it for a moment, then at the wound. Nodding, he pressed the cloth up into the flesh around the protruding object.

With that secure, Quinn jumped up and ran for the house. The owl continued to screech, the sound filling his mind as he ran. Old Tom first, then the owl, he thought. Inside the house, he found the phone in the kitchen and a first aid kit hanging on the wall nearby. He dialed the police, grabbing the kit while he waited for them to answer. The ringing stopped, but the phone slipped from his blood-covered hand.

“Hello?” he said into the receiver once he got in back to his ear.

“Hello?” Officer Dylan’s familiar voice said. “Can you hear me?”

“I need help. Old Tom is injured. Come quick.”

“Slow down,” she said. “What happened?”

“No time,” he said. “He’s bleeding in the barn. Come quick.”

The phone slipped from his hand, and he left it, running back to the barn. Quinn dropped next to the man, pulling bandages from the kit. He pressed them up against the nearly saturated shirt, remembering to leave it in place. His hands shook, and sweat ran into his eyes. He wiped his face with his dirty arm, and pressed more bandages around the shirt.

“Please work,” he said out loud.

He tried to grab the long sticky bandage to finish and dropped the kit. He shook his head. This was not how explorers were supposed to act. They were brave. A wound didn’t bother them. Looking back at the blood on the ground and on his hands, he shivered. He didn’t remember this from the movies. Quinn clenched his teeth and used his legs and body to leverage the man up, cradling his head in his lap. His arms scraped on the dirty floor as he wrapped Old Tom’s torso.

Was that a siren? Were the police already here? Panicking, he laid the old man back down. They couldn’t find him here. The old man would have him arrested. Officer Dylan had warned him what would happen. He had to leave.

Wiping his hand on the man’s shirt, he grabbed his pack and fled. In the distance, he heard the sirens approach the farm, but he didn’t look back. He just ran for home.

----

Chapter Five - Truth

Officer Dylan stood in the hospital room, notebook in hand. Old Tom lay unconscious on his bed.

“When he’s like that, he’s almost pleasant,” the nurse muttered.

“Tell me, again, what he said,” Dylan said.

“He mostly cursed us out,” the lady said. “But he did mutter a lot about some boy sneaking into his barn and scaring the animals. Said that made him fall. Said he saw the boy’s face clear as day looking down and smiling at him.”

The nurse nodded at the old man.

“Mind you, he’s been drugged up since he arrived. When he first came to, he thought I was that boy. Grabbed my arm and called for the police. Actually, he called for you, specifically.” She pointed at Dylan. “Said you knew all about what I’d done, and I’d be sorry when you got here.”

“Did he say the boy’s name?”

“Started with a K I think.”

“Quinn?”

“Yes,” she said. “That sounds about right.”

Dylan looked back at the sleeping man.

“If you ask me, he’s delirious,” the nurse went on. “Probably doesn’t want to admit he fell on his own and is making up the part about the boy.”

Dylan pursed her lips. Everyone fancied themselves a detective.

“That’s my job to figure out. When can I talk to him?”

“Probably tomorrow, seeing as visiting hours are almost over.”

“I’ll come back in the morning,” Dylan nodded, putting her notebook away and turning to leave.

“You don’t think he’s telling the truth, do you?” the nurse asked. “I mean, he was pretty delirious.”

“That’s my job to determine,” Dylan said, continuing to walk away. “You just make sure Old Tom recovers.”

The nurse snorted.

“That man’s too stubborn to get better.”

Dylan just kept walking.

----

Quinn lay in his bathtub, still wearing his adventure’s clothes. Well, everything but his shirt. Why had he used his shirt? They would figure out it was him for sure. But what else could he do? Pull it out and risk making the wound worse? At least he remembered to grab his backpack. Maybe the shirt was so bloody they’d just toss it out and never figure out who it belonged to. Maybe no one would bother since he’d clearly just been trying to help.

Even Quinn didn’t believe that. So, there he lay, in the same place he’d been since he snuck home. No one would mess with him in here, especially his nosy sister. He’d just make a fart sound and she’d run off, screaming about how gross he was. He chuckled at the thought. Inside the tub, it would echo, making it sound so much worse.

His laughter died as soon as it started. No one had even noticed he’d come home. No one had bothered him except his own mind. The image of all that blood flooded back in, and he shook his head, pressing his hands into his eyes. He tried to think of anything else. Of the tractor he’d seen, of the owl. Nothing worked. He couldn’t stop seeing the old man lying there, his blood on the ground. On his hands.

It was still on his hands.

----

Dylan paused in the hallway as Rose, Quinn’s mother, closed the door behind her.

"He’s in the bathroom,” Rose said. “He snuck in there and hasn’t left.”

“Did you talk to him at all?”

She shook her head, looking down the hall.

“It's best to just leave him be until he’s ready to talk,” she said. “Did he do something?”

Dylan shrugged. “That’s what I’m here to find out. May I speak with him?”

Rose nodded and led her down a short set of stairs at the end of the hall. She stopped in front of a closed door to the right and knocked.

“Quinn? Are you okay?”

No answer.

“Quinn, the police are here and need to talk to you.”

Still no answer. Rose pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open. They found him lying in the bathtub, still clothed save for a t-shirt. Rose rushed in, grabbing at him.

“Quinn, what’s wrong? Is that blood on your hands? Are you injured?”

The boy shifted, trying to keep his hands to himself.

“I’m not hurt, mom. Just leave me alone.”

Dylan stepped into the doorway.

“Quinn, you need to tell me what’s going on,” Rose insisted.

“Just go away. I don’t want to talk right now.”

Rose looked up and shrugged. Dylan beckoned her into the hall.

“Let me try,” she said, pointing at a nearby bench. “You can listen from right there.”

Rose looked at her boy, then nodded. Dylan stepped past the bathtub and stood near the sink, the door still ajar.

“Quinn, you were in Old Tom’s barn today, weren’t you?” she asked.

The boy shifted, but said nothing.

“Do you know what happened there today?”

His body shook and he whimpered. Dylan waited a moment before continuing.

“Where is your shirt?” she asked. “Are you cold?”

He shook his head. “I lost it.”

“Quinn, I found your shirt. It was in Old Tom’s barn.”

Rose appeared in the doorway.

“Were you in there, again? Quinn we told you not to go there.”

Dylan held up a hand.

“Actually, Quinn, I misspoke. We didn’t find your shirt in his barn.”

Rose looked at her, brow furrowed.

“But you knew that already, didn’t you?” Dylan continued.

Quinn finally moved, head turning toward the ceiling.

“Is he okay?”

“Yes,” Dylan said. “He’s going to make a full recovery.”

“What’s going on?” Rose asked, eyes still on Dylan.

“Old Tom had a nasty fall today. We don’t know how it happened, although Old Tom thinks he knows. What we do know is that someone helped him after he fell. Someone who knew first aid and who called the police to make sure he got help.”

Dylan looked at Quinn. The boy was looking at his hands, still caked with dry blood.

“That was you, wasn’t it?”

He nodded.

“Ma’am, your son didn’t lose his shirt. He used it to help bandage a nasty wound in Old Tom’s side,” Dylan said. “Is that right?”

Quinn nodded. “I couldn’t find anything else. I had to stop the bleeding before I could call for help.”

Rose slipped into the room and knelt by the tub, reaching in to hug him.

“Oh, my boy,” she whispered.

Dylan moved near the kneeling Rose.

“You saved his life by doing that,” she said. “And I’ll make sure he knows that.”

She turned to leave, but Quinn called after her.

“What about the owl?”

----

Old Tom awoke in a room entirely too bright for his liking. He forced his eyes open and grimaced. Still in the hospital. At the foot of his bed stood Officer Dylan.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she said.

He waved a hand at her.

“Never mind all that. Did you arrest that boy for trespassing?”

She shook her head. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

“What’s there to talk about? The boy was in my barn. I saw him with my own eyes.” He pointed at her. “I’m not sure how you missed him. You were there. I told you he was there.”

“Actually, sir, I didn’t go into the barn until after you left.”

“Well, then, who was I talking to?”

“Quinn. He said you were delirious and thought he was the police.”

“Well, see, that proves he was there.”

Dylan nodded. “Yes, but it doesn’t prove why he was there.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because he saved your life.”

She tossed something down on his covers. He looked down to see a blue t-shirt covered in blood stains.

“The medics found that wrapped around a piece of wood protruding from your side. They said the entire wound was wrapped tight with bandages from your first aid kit.”

Old Tom stared at the shirt.

“It’s your decision, sir, but I think you should consider that not everything is as you see it,” she said, moving toward the door. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He picked up the shirt, and saw a name written inside the collar in black ink.

“Wait.”

She paused in the doorway.

“I think the boy needs a new shirt.”

Dylan stared at him for a moment, then smiled.

“I think you’re right.”

----

Chapter Six - Release

Quinn stopped on Old Tom’s porch. The door loomed overhead, but what lay beyond loomed even larger.

“It’s okay, Quinn,” Rose said from behind him.

He shook his head. “I don’t need you. I can do this alone.”

He felt their eyes on him.

“Are you sure?” Rose asked.

He nodded. The door stood ajar, so he knocked and pushed it open. Better to be inside than have them staring at him.

“Hello?” he said, leaning inside.

“Don’t stand in the doorway, boy,” a familiar voice said. “I can barely move. You expect me to greet you?”

“Don’t mind him,” a young man said, waving Quinn inside. “I’m Beckett, his at-home nurse.”

Quinn followed him past empty walls and simple furniture. In the adjoining room, a tv and a radio, both ancient, stood opposite a simple chair under a window. A scowling Old Tom lay in a bed in the middle.

“You dawdle a lot,” the old man grumbled.

“You complain a lot,” Quinn retorted.

Beckett froze, and Old Tom glared at Quinn. He began to shake and make sound like a car engine refusing to start up. A moment later, Quinn realized he was laughing.

“Ha, you got a tongue on you,” he said, waving Quinn closer. “Good, good.”

Quinn moved toward the chair. A brown paper package tied with string sat atop it.

“Go ahead,” Old Tom said. “I think I got the right one.”

Quinn began untying the string.

“None of that now. Just rip it open.”

Quinn grinned and tore into the paper, pulling the string off to one side. Inside, he found a blue shirt. His blue shirt.

“You found another one?”

Old Tom shook his head. “That Officer Dylan did. Mind you, it took her some doing to get that. You might not want to wear a hard-to-find item when you’re climbing around and getting dirty.”

“But it’s an explorer shirt,” he said, holding it up. “You have to wear it exploring.”

Old Tom chuckled, a sound akin to a saw ripping through a tree.

“Are you okay?”

“I got stitches in my side, a lump on my head, and enough old wounds to keep old Beckett here busy all day long.”

He squinted at Quinn.

“Of course, I’m not okay. Why do you ask?”

Quinn shook his head. “No reason.”

“Out with it,” Old Tom insisted.

Quinn looked at Beckett, who shrugged.

“Well, your laugh is broken.”

Beckett coughed and turned away. Old Tom glanced at the nurse, then back at Quinn. For a moment, he said nothing.

“It’s not broken,” he said, his voice quiet. “But I haven’t laughed in a long time. So, I guess I need practice.”

“Why haven’t you laughed?”

Beckett looked sideways at Old Tom.

“I can see you, boy. Don’t you have something to do?”

He looked over at Quinn as Beckett left the room.

“You ask some tough questions. Are you sure you want them answered?”

Quinn considered his answer.

“I think every question deserves an answer. Even the hard ones.”

Old Tom snorted. “Yes, you would think that. Tell you what. I’ll answer that question tomorrow.”

“Why then?”

A loud screech filled the room. Quinn turned to see Beckett wheeling in a large cage. Inside stood the owl, wings at the proper angle.

“Because today we answer a different question,” Old Tom said. “Whether a once injured owl can learn to fly again.”

“You’re not talking about him are you?” Quinn asked, pointing at the bird.

“Of course I am,” Old Tom scowled. “Sometimes an owl is just an owl.”

“But it could be you.”

Old Tom stared at him, then shook his head.

“You’re incorrigible, aren’t you?”

Quinn grinned. “Just like you!”

The owl screeched again. Old Tom and Quinn burst into a fit of laughter as Beckett wheeled the cage outside. The two sat inside, watching as the owl left the cage, hopping along at first before tentatively taking to the air. It soared overhead, then dove back into the barn.

“Guess we’ll see him again,” Old Tom said.

“Only if we go in the barn.”

Old Tom patted Quinn on the shoulder.

“Maybe," he said. "Just not today."

"Tomorrow?" Quinn asked.

"What's tomorrow?"

"Tuesday."

The End