As I’ve stepped into my later teenage years, I’ve had to balance the necessity of becoming an adult and the longing of remaining young. I didn’t want to lose myself in the process of growing older. I wanted to be young and stay young.

Of course, that’s not going to happen, apparently.

I’ve got a pretty big milestone birthday at the end of this year, and my teenage years will be over. But, I don’t want to end up just like any other grown-up. Yeah, I’ll have bills and taxes and appointments and other responsibilities, but who’s to say that I’m supposed to lose my love for youth while I’m working in the real world?

So how exactly does someone stay gold while growing up?

Well, I can tell you how not to do it. Trying to be forever young does not give you the reason to run about partying and causing trouble. Bad decisions aren’t to be excused. Don’t go out and do something rash to your body just on a whim for the sake of it. Don’t run about doing something dangerous just for the adrenaline and aesthetic of it where you’re going to end up dying young. Don’t dabble your mind in things that can suck you in and tangle you up faster than you can blink, whether it be physical substances or mental ideas.

There’s nothing gold about that. That’s immaturity, not being youthful.

Instead, try to keep the mindset of youth. Physical changes can’t be helped. Acts of stupidity can’t be justified. But you can think a certain way.

Instead, try to keep a childlike thirst for learning. Children are always asking why, questioning, and wondering how something works. Why does the sun always set there? Why does snow melt? How many stars are out there? How do fish breathe underwater? I have younger siblings, and the questions are endless.

I feel as people get older, they stop being curious. They just go day by day, not asking “why” anymore. They turn on the news, swallow whatever is on there, then turn around and blindly follow whoever they’ve chosen to listen to. They build an echo chamber around them, having only voices that agree with them calling out inside. They stop asking why they do things. Someone smarter than them told them that they should do it, so that’s the only reason they have for the action.

Why can’t we continue to learn and grow, even when we’re older? We don’t need to lose that longing for knowledge. I don’t care how you learn - if you read or listen or watch or do but keep feeding your mind. If you find something that you don’t understand, don’t take it for granted. Study it. Test it. Find out everything you can about it. Question everything. Build your mind.

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Another thing that I see grown-ups losing is the ability to stop and watch something small. They get too caught up in the fast pace of the world and they miss all the little things. They don’t stop and notice the sunset, the bee on a flower, or the way the frost dusts the autumn leaves. They just run on by, leaving it to wither and melt and die away.

I don’t want to be that kind of grown-up. I want to keep a youthful fascination for the beauty and wonder around me. I want to capture it so others can see it. I want to show others what they are missing in their hurried lives. As they work themselves raw to please people that they will never meet, I’ll compose a few lines to contain the gleam of moonlight on the flowing creek and the screaming of the hawk above me. I don’t want to miss this. I was given a world to protect and nurture. You’re not going to see me run my life past it.

One final thing - I want to take every chance I can get. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized just how short of a time we’re given here. There’s not enough time to see everything that was created for us. There’s not enough time to see all the beautiful people, places, and things that we have been blessed with here on earth. There’s not enough time to learn all the secrets of how everything works. There’s not enough time for anything, really.

Why would I spend most of the little time I have here working myself to death over something I don’t enjoy just so I have plenty of money to do things that I won’t have the chance to do because I’m wrapped up in a career? Why can’t I do something I love, even if I don’t have hundreds of thousands of dollars resting in an account somewhere? Why can’t I stay small, humble, and happy instead of frantic, powerful, and consumed by the world’s expectations?

I want to work where I’m happy. If I’m spending time there, I want to enjoy it. Life is too short to burn yourself down every day. I want to be outdoors, wrapped up in the service that I was designed for. I want to take every moment that I’m given and live it as best as I can. I want to waste nothing.

I want to spend all the time I can with those I love and care for. I want to tend to the place I was planted in with the responsibility that it needs. I want to nurture the little hearts around me, encouraging them to grow to their fullest potential. I want to spread the light I have to everyone I can before I’m doused in death.

Life is too short to act like most grown-ups.

I want to laugh those deep, make-tears-come-to-your-eyes laughs. I want to sing at the top of my lungs with my friends as we travel down the road. I want to see dust fly up around the horse’s feet as I cheer on whoever is living their dream. I want to see the light in my child’s eyes as they understand the concept of reading for the first time, and watch worlds open up before them as they get to read everything I loved. I want to dance like I don’t care who’s watching me. I want to stop in my tracks to take a picture, as there may come a time where I don’t have the person beside me.

That’s how I want to be forever young. Not wild. Not immature. Not reckless and desperate. Instead, there’s still the gold of youth shimmering on my skin.

I don’t want to lose myself.

Stay gold.

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A little shorter one this week, I know. However, next week’s should be the same length of the past posts. The portions of that were next ended up being that either this would be a really long or slightly shorter post, and I chose shorter. :)

I like having a buffer of writing so if something were to happen, I don’t have to stress about having enough to warrant a post for the week. So, this is shorter for that reason.

But, I’ll stop yapping. Here’s the next portions!

…

Nathaniel Maher, 17. Crawford, Nebraska.

“We need to do something, or I’m going to go crazy.”

I looked down at him, dumbfounded. “You’re already crazy,” I commented from my perch up in one of his trees. I was curled up in the branches, trying to get some privacy to read. It was maddening having all the little kids running about.

“Sure, but I’m gonna bust if I can’t get out and do something this summer,” Carson continued, half ignoring my jab at his pride. He was unbothered by everything I said. “All my friends are out running about.”

“You went to town yesterday,” I reminded him. “You are allowed to run around – you’re just thinking…”

“I’m thinking that I should be allowed to do something crazy for once,” he interrupted. “You know how annoying it is have a preacher for a dad. If you mess up, you get used in a sermon.” He impatiently chucked a stray brick at my tree. “The only fun I can have is at home.”

I thought over the last few days, all of which included Carson running about without his shirt, jumping in to the hay from the barn loft, pushing me in the pond, and racing the four-wheelers across the pasture. He seemed pretty free to me but what was I to know? My version of fun included a book and maybe some dirt on my nails. Carving wood was fun too. Carson would rather have adrenaline and drama. That was fun to him. “Well,” I asked, putting my book down, “what were you wanting to do?”

“Camp. I want to go out in the woods and camp.”

Well, there were worse things that he could want to do. I supposed he could only do so much, being the son of a preacher. What a rebel. I would hate to be in his mother’s place. I sighed and climbed out of the tree. “Do you even have woods around here to camp in?”

He shrugged. “We’ve got Fort Robinson but there’s people there. I’ve just roughed it and gone out to the National Forest on a whim and never gotten caught though.” Before I could sputter a comment, he continued. “There’s also Soldier Creek.”

Those last words sparked my interest. “What’s Soldier Creek?”

“Oh, it’s just this place where they had some battles with local tribes years ago. Later they put up a German prisoner of war camp nearby but that’s gone now.”

I still was intrigued. “How big is it?”

He looked at me, eyebrow cocked up. “Not crazy big, but decent. You want to try it?”

I’d always enjoyed camping, but only the kind with tents and campfires. My parents liked RV camping better, so I tended to stay home when they went out somewhere to camp. If I had a tent and a backyard, I was happy. “Sure,” I answered. “I’ll like to.”

I leaped out of the tree and followed him back to the house, my book tucked under my arm. He ran, as he always did, so I was far behind. He rarely walked. When I finally made it to the door, I could hear him spouting out a plan to his mom at a million miles per hour. How she understood him, I’d never know.

“And we’ll just stay out there a few days, and we’ll be fine ‘cause I’ve done this before, so I’m gonna go grab our stuff and we’ll be back,” he said, barely out of breath.

His mom just looked at him as if this was a perfectly normal event. “Are you two just going up to Soldier Creek?”

“Yeah, just for a few days,” he replied, already on his way to the stairs.

I just watched as she called up to his escaping figure. “Make sure to be here in time for church and Clarissa’s friend’s birthday party. I’ll need you to babysit the younger boys.”

A casual “Sure,” rolled down the stairs and landed unceremoniously at her feet. She seemed to shrug and accept it, folding it up how a mother does and carrying it with her. I awkwardly walked past her, going up the stairs to her restless child.

Oh great. The citizens under the bed were being removed and laid about the room. A dusty backpack was dragged from the depths and mystery, stuffed with who knows what. Carson was half under the bed, shoving stuff aside and mumbling to himself as he rambled under there. I opened the backpack and pilfered though the contents. Blankets, knifes, fire starter – this must be his camping kit.

He crawled back out from under the bed; dust bunnies caught up in his hair. “Did you bring anything for camping?” he inquired.

“No,” I replied, the obvious confusion in my voice. “I didn’t plan on being Daniel Boone over the summer.”

“Who?”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

He sat on the floor and leaned up against his bed. “I’ve heard the name, but that’s really all I know.”

“You have to be kidding.”

He shrugged. “You’re the nerd. Tell me, who is he?”

I sighed. I supposed I’d have to get used to this if I was going to be a history professor. This generation was so stupid when it came to stuff like this. “He was an explorer of the frontier,” I summarized, “and he lived a long time ago.”

“When?”

“Between 1734 and 1820.”

He shot me a humored look. “Nerd.”

“If you read more, you’d remember stuff like that.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he replied.

I didn’t argue with him. He was right. There was no way he’d remember names and dates. He might be able to recall events and stuff like that, but he wasn’t the type of person to spout out facts and other bits of history like I could.

A thought crossed my mind as he went back to his task. Even though he was annoying, even though he could be wild and crazy and I was never sure what would come out of his mouth next, the world needed people like him. If the world was just full of people like me, who would I get to teach?

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Daniel Weston, 18. Rincon, Georgia

I leaned against the fence as Mason rode up, trailing another horse behind him. Grinning, he tossed the reins to me. “Wanna practice? I got a steer ready.”

I took the well-worn reins, loving the feel of them against the calluses on my hands, the way they were soft and yet still firm and sturdy. The horse he gave me, a beautiful paint, snorted as I took command and hopped the fence into the corral with Mason, turning her so I could mount. “’Course I’ll practice,” I replied. “Why’d you think I showed up?”

“To git yer half of the cash,” he shrugged. “I managed to git it all pawned last week.”

“We can do that after this,” I said, encouraging the paint after him as he trotted ahead. “We’ve got to practice for the show next week.”

Together, we rode out into the paddock where the chute was, housing an unhappy steer. Mason’s younger sister, Bonnie, was sitting near the chute, and she looked up as we rode to her. For some reason, her parents named her after a famous outlaw – at least that’s what Mason told me. Somehow, he got all the outlaw blood in him though. She was crafty but wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not great outlaw material.

Bonnie smiled up at the two of us. “When’d you drop by?” she questioned me. “Come to show Mason how it’s done?”

Before I could reply, Mason answered. “Nah, we’re just gonna practice some team roping if ya’ can work the chute.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What’d you think I was sittin’ here for? Just to look pretty?” She handed me her rope that she had near her, assumingly to practice her roping act with. “You’ll need this.”

Knowing that was her way of saying she’d help, Mason and I got in our positions. His wavy black hair was flipped up in the wind as he nodded to Bonnie to start. Suddenly, my focus was directed to the steer that dashed out between us. I waited, watching him. Almost. Almost. There – he crossed the invisible, memorized line that he needed to.

Mason and I both galloped forward. I took my place as the header, quickly roping the steer around the head before I even really thought about it. It was second nature to me. I dallied the rope around the saddle horn as rapidly as I could while guiding the steer to the left, letting Mason do his magic as the heeler. Suddenly, almost by instinct, we were facing each other with the tied steer between us, and it was over. Everything happened so quickly and flawlessly.

Bonnie stood and clapped for us as we untied the cow’s legs. Everything had happened in about three seconds - our best time yet. As the steer indignantly thrashed about, not eager in the least to repeat the process, Mason grinned at me. “Should we do it again?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” I agreed, leading the steer back to the start.

The steer was in the chute, we were in position, and everything was only waiting on Mason’s nod when my phone rang. Bonnie hurried over to my horse as I dismounted, taking the reins while I answered. “Hello?”

I froze as Claire’s panicked voice trembled over the air. Her words stumbled over each other, tangling up so I couldn’t tell what she was saying. I could tell she was crying and I tried to get her to slow down. “Hey, Claire. Stop. Breathe. What’s going on?”

“It’s, it’s, it’s Morgan,” she finally got out. “They’ve got everyone in the factory under lockdown. Daniel, what does that mean? I can’t lose him. Think of Riley! I can’t lose my husband. I can’t. I can’t-”

“Claire,” I said sharply. “Stop freaking out. You’re not helping anyone right now.”

“But he’s going to die, Daniel! This is my husband – your brother – that we’re talking about!”

I closed my eyes in frustration. Don’t think about what’s inevitable, I reminded myself. This will not end well. “Has he told you that he has it?”

She choked back a sob over the phone. “No, I don’t think he has it yet. Someone at the factory did though, so they shut everything down.” I heard her sniffle as she thought about it. “He’s just there trapped with the accursed virus just waiting to die.”

That deep feeling in my gut wrapped around me again for the millionth time since I’d heard about the virus. I felt awful, as the only face in my mind was of Riley and not my brother. At least he shouldn’t see his dad die. That’s a sight a young child should never have to see.

“Claire,” I instructed. “Whatever you do, stay home. I will get you food and anything you need from outside. Morgan would want you to live. I need you to stay with Riley. Don’t leave the house.”

“But what about Morgan?”

“I’ll call him,” I promised. “Just hunker down at home.”

“Can you come here?”

I stared at the dust on my boots, wishing everything would just stop for a moment. “I’ll swing by. Just don’t leave.”

“We won’t.” Her voice was on the edge of breaking. “I’ll be here.”

I ended the phone call and froze as I took the phone from my ear. What should I do now? I was only one person in one place that now had two people in my care. I set my jaw. Feeling my teeth tighten in the back, I turned back to my friends. “I’ve got to go.”

Before Mason replied, Bonnie spoke, reassuring and soft. “Go. We overheard.”

I started to walk off, but my feet started stumbling faster and faster until I was running. I swung over the fence and made it to my motorcycle before grief caught up with me. It touched my shoulder as I sped off, trying to outrun it. I wrapped up all the emotions that clamored for my attention and pushed ahead. I couldn’t grieve. I had to be the protector now.

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I’ve been writing since I was very young. In those years, I’ve learned some things from the music, poetry, and stories that have run from my fingertips.

Here’s what I’ve learned (led by writer memes for you all):

A writer’s mind is always working

I cannot count the amount of times that I’ve lost what people are telling me, because I’m lost in my own head. There are worlds upon worlds crashing about in there, never stopping, never slowing, never waiting for a decent moment to raise themselves. They grab on to the slightest thing close to me and the next thing I know, it’s been five minutes and I have no clue what’s being talked about around me.

I’ve been working out plot holes and naming people and making connections and halfway going mad while all you’ve been doing is making small talk over the table. Writers tend to be very distracted people, but oh if you knew. If you only knew the beautiful things that we have in our heads.

Having your own time is important

Having moments to yourself is something that I’ve found really helps when it comes to writing. It can get overwhelming with a busy mind. Clocking out and going for a walk or huddling in a corner with a book and a blanket is a perfect recharge for an author. Instead of starting at your paper or screen or listening to everyone talk about things in their lives, reset your brain. Stop the noise of the world around you and get some time for yourself. Your writing will benefit so much from it.

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God knows what He’s doing

This one was wild when it dawned on me. In a way, every author plays God. I know that some may find that a little concerning but hear me out here.

As a writer, you are creating worlds and people and giving them a life. You have every hair on their head numbered and every step they take memorized. Your characters are your children in a way, and you have their lives planned out. Everything has a reason. Everything you put your characters through will make more sense as the book goes on.

Well, hasn’t God done the same thing? Hasn’t He planned out your life with every step and every reason making sense at some point down the road? Even if you never see it, you just trust that your Author has the plot worked out and it’s all going to work out.

As an author, I take a character and hurt them. I put them through things that they think that they can’t handle but somehow, just somehow, they are given enough strength to make it through. Things happen and they question why. Why would a good author take a little girl’s mother in such a horrible way and place such a caring young man in the roughest part of town? Why would the good and sweet ones die? Why would the ones you love the most deal with things that they don’t deserve?

Because there’s a plan. God is the Good Author in complete control. I’m a good author with partial control (since sometimes they run away from me). There’s a reason for every tear, every bruise, every death. Every time a character screams out in confusion, holding on to the little they have left, I’m seeing the ending in my head. I know where it’s all going. I’m able to say, “Just hold on. I’m here, and I know the plans that I have for you.”

It’s a lot easier to trust the Author when you do the same to your creations.

A good answer to any question

Before really devoting a lot of time to my writing, I felt weird looking up wild and different topics. I mean, who wants to answer the question, “Why were you looking up the most poisonous plants in the U.S.?” when you only have “Just because” as an answer?

Maybe I’m odd for overthinking stuff like that, but now I have a quick and perfectly true answer for anything. “Oh, I’m a writer,” or “It’s for a book.” It’s really handy to just have that simple answer ready to toss in someone’s lap with they get nervous reading your search history.

You are now a glorified babysitter

I don’t know how they, especially mothers, do it sometimes. This Tuesday, on the 9th, was one of my character’s birthdays (yes, I’m weird like that), and I forgot, and felt like a bad character mom. In a way, they are all my children and somedays it’s hard to keep up with them.

Though I control them to an extent, my characters will sometimes run away from me and start doing things that I didn’t plan. I just kind of follow along and document the wild things they start doing. They are wild, rambunctious children that probably need a spanking for not listening and doing whatever they please, but I love them to death. I want the best for them, so I punish where it’s needed and guide them the best I can.

When the characters really start running away with the story, making a mess of things and finding connections that you didn’t realize you’d done, you are pretty much a babysitter under the guise of an author. You’re just there to make sure they don’t kill each other - unless you want that - and that they get to the ending that you planned.

You are crazy

Let’s face it - you are crazy. All authors are. You literally have a thousand people in your head, fighting for your attention, begging not to be killed off. You make people fall in love with fragments of your mind. You live in strange worlds in your head that you created. You create people that everyone loves, then you kill them in front of everybody in the most tragic way possible. You are all your characters bound together into one person.

I didn’t realize that not everyone daydreams as vivid and as complex as an author does. Not everyone connects to creations of their mind. Not everyone has different voices in their heads. Not everyone can put on different masks and act like a different person in their head depending on which character is leading.

You are crazy.

You are also wild, and beautiful, and imaginative, and perfect for one title.

Author. You are an author.

What an amazing thing to be.

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…

Alexander Ward, 19. Outside of Lewistown, Montana

“Careful, careful,” I whispered to myself as Josiah slowly raised the steer in the air with our tractor. The body swung in the air as it left the ground, dead and limp. I held up a hand to make Josiah stop raising him and he obeyed. The boy was grinning from ear to ear as he left the tractor, staring with pride at the almost food before him. “Never thought I’d be raising the dead at your place,” he laughed. At my exasperated look, he added, “Not the right time?”

“Yeah, it’s not, you heathen,” I quietly scolded, lost in the thought of the task before us. I glanced over my workstation, consisting of several knives, a sharpener, a couple jugs of water, and a towel. I’d processed deer before. Surely this would be no different.

I felt small as I stood on a chair to reach the back legs of the cow. People really didn’t realize how large these animals were until they were stretched out by their own weight and hanging above your head. As carefully as I could, I started skinning it with Josiah hovering over me, observing my every move. At least I knew what I was doing from years of hunting.

I could hear my dad’s voice in my head as my knife worked on the hide. Small motions – that was the way to do it. Don’t get too rapid. It isn’t going anywhere. I remembered his hands on mine, guiding my strokes along. I held the hide back with one hand and cut with the other. Easy. Don’t cut through.

Josiah spoke as my mind wandered. “Could I try?” he asked. “I mean, I’d like to say I got some of my hide off.”

For once, his face was humble and childlike. I could see the eager wanting in his eyes. I thought of our dad. He never had a chance to train Josiah. Not taking a second thought, I stood as far as I could on one side of the chair. “Hop on up,” I invited, handing him the knife as he did so. “Here’s how you do it.”

I guided his hands, making one hold the hide back and the other carefully slicing. “Small cuts,” I instructed. “It’s not going anywhere. Easy does it.”

He nicked the hide, barely poking the tip of the blade through. He swore under his breath, but I didn’t criticize, remembering what my first hide looked like. “That’s okay,” I assured him. “You’re just learning.”

He scowled and handed the knife back to me. “No, I screwed it up.” He started to step down from the stool. “It’ll be better if you finish. I’ll make a mess of it.”

I grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him in my direction. “Nope. You’re going to do this.” I let my voice grow hard. “I’m not going to let you just give up because you didn’t get it perfect on the first try. You’re going to learn butchering. You’re going to bake more bread. You’re going to learn.” I gave him the knife. “Try again.”

With a stone-cold look on his face, he began again. His strokes became angry and he slashed instead of careful, forced peeling. I laid my hand over his. “Easy does it,” I advised. “Breathe. I’m not judging you.”

He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the knife, then slowly returned to color as he breathed. His flashing eyes eased, and he continued with the hide. His body was stiff with commitment, holding himself erect with bruised pride.

Eventually, I stepped off the stool and let him completely take over. In his fury at not being flawless, he poured himself into his task, working with skill that is only brought on by refined anger. I tried to stay quiet, only speaking to tell him where to cut next.

Slowly, the hide came off, one slice at a time. I held the loose skin as he continued working downward. I was so proud of him. As he worked, the anger faded from his face and changed into delicate precision that made him look mature and responsible – something I never thought I’d see for a long time.

As the last bit of the hide came off, pride flooded his face. He gave me a quick glance, searching for approval. I didn’t dump it on him, but a quick grin and a reassuring nod were enough to make him satisfied.

Together, we started on the meat. I worked quickly on my side, cutting roasts and other pieces with the training of many hunting trips in my mind. Josiah was slower, watching me to learn how to proceed. I glanced over at him while I carefully worked on the roast on the back leg, being cautious. I didn’t want to cut the tendon and send the whole carcass to the ground.

Josiah, unfortunately, didn’t realize how important that one tendon was. On his side, it was promptly cut, sending his side swaying as the leg broke free from the joint. The movement caused me to jump in surprise as what was left of the leg swung around, resulting in my knife being yanked out the meat by my startled hand, cutting the other tendon.

We both leapt back as the carcass crashed to the ground, the joints of both legs broken and free. I stared at it, dumbfounded. Josiah simply smirked in dark humor. “Whoops.”

His voice was so done and frustrated that I couldn’t help but laugh. “That didn’t end how I hoped.”

My brother nudged the bone with his foot. “Well, what now?”

I set my knife down on the table we’d set up, looking critically at the pitiful mess we’d made. We certainly made a lot of those. “Do we have a tarp around here that’s clean?” I asked. “We could try to roll it on that to keep it off the ground.”

“I don’t think the five second rule counts when a whole cow is on the ground.”

“Well, it’ll be something. Do you know of a clean tarp?”

He gave me one of his looks. “This is your house,” he reminded me. “You should know if your tarps are clean or not.”

“Good point.” I stared down at the body. “I’ll be back.”

After finding a tarp, cleaning it, bringing it back over to the butchering station, and laying it out flat on the ground, both Josiah and I stared at it again. There was a lot of staring today, I realized. At least we were doing it to a steer and not anything else. As I smiled at that humorous thought, Josiah spoke. “So, who’s rolling it on the tarp?”

“We both are, of course.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “How’d you think we were doing this?”

We each grabbed a leg, leaning over the body. With a count to three, we heaved it over, but didn’t make it all the way until Josiah lost his grip on it. It thudded back over, making an awful squishing sound. I sighed, knowing what I had to do.

Grabbing my knife again, I knelt at the torso of the mangled beast. With a few cuts, I gutted it, sending Josiah in a retching fit. He left and hunched behind my truck, unable to handle that side of butchering.

After he cleaned himself up, the rolling began again. Without the extra weight, we managed to move the cow to the tarp. The cutting resumed.

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Callie Evans, 15. Clarksville, Tennessee.

I heard them talking downstairs. The snippets of words that I caught froze my heart.

“I’m telling you that this is the best.”

“I know, but…”

“Julie, would you rather they get it?”

A pause as my mother hesitated. “But surely there isn’t another way? Honey, what if…”

“We can say what if all day long,” my father pointed out. “We’re all bound to get it at some point. I’d rather they have a fighting chance.”

A hand rested on my shoulder as I listened, and I jumped. Glancing back, I scowled at Nate. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Don’t eavesdrop,” he chastised, but his face wasn’t scolding. He was worried, and he nestled down on the stairs beside me. “Are you listening to them too?”

“Don’t get on to me for something you’re doing too,” I replied, “and yes. I am. What do you think they’re talking about?”

He listened again for a second, then answered. “I think we’re going to the cabin.”

“All of us, right?”

He gave a quiet shrug. “I honestly don’t think so.”

I felt a lump catch in my throat. “You’re coming with me. You have to come.”

“There’s nothing else I can do,” he pointed out. “I’m out of work until Mr. Howard is back. He isn’t leaving the hospital until Raelynn gets better.” He shook his head, wearily. “Last I heard, she wasn’t looking good. They’ve already put her on a ventilator.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Oh Nate. She’s… she really is…?”

He nodded.

I felt my eyes grow wide as it dawned on me. She was close to the end. No one had any hope by the time a person was put on a ventilator. You were gone by that point. Once the news came out, everyone knew that you’d be a living shell – at least that’s what they said on the internet.

My grieving thoughts were interrupted by our parents calling us downstairs. We stepped down together, staring at them in concern and worry. They knew we knew. They had to.

I felt pale and cold, standing there in fear. I knew that this wasn’t going to be good. This wasn’t going to be a fun and lively summer. This was going to be very, very quiet. This was a summer of fear, where children died at the beginning of their lives without a chance to live. Innocence was over. We’d learned to watch other things and pretend that the news didn’t exist – that the death count wasn’t rising more and more every day.

“Nathan. Callie. Your mother and I have decided something.” My mouth went dry as I listened to my father. “We’re sending you to the cabin to live.”

“Until the virus passes,” my mom added in a fake cheerful voice. “Just until the virus passes. Then you will be home.”

Yeah, we’ll be home in heaven when it passes, I thought, slightly shocked at my morbid mind.

“You’re not coming?” Nate asked, standing tall in worry. “How can you just stay here?”

My mom’s voice was close to breaking. “We’ve got work and stuff here that we’ve got to take care of.”

The unspoken answer hung in the air: there’d be less people to trade around germs if they stayed behind. Plus, she probably didn’t want to see us when it finally caught up to us. I couldn’t imagine how she would do if she were in Mr. Howard’s place, slowly watching a child she loved fade away.

“I want you two to start packing,” our father commanded. “Nate, you’re driving you and your sister to the cabin in the morning.”

The way he said it left no room for protest. I could tell he was trying very hard to hide any emotion that possessed him. He had to be strong. Mom was frail and on the brink of tears. He had to be unwavering for us, someone for us to hold on to as we worked through this in our minds. That’s just who he was.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and ran upstairs to my room, slamming the door in baffled grief. I leaned against the wall, sinking to the ground as sobs racked my chest. I choked on my tears, tasting the salt as it leaked from my heart. No. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to leave my parents. I didn’t want to go to the cabin to die. I wanted to see Raelynn bike up the street again, inviting me out to a party. I wanted to go to somewhere with Lainey before something happened to her too. I wanted to be alive. I wanted to feel the joy that I loved in the past.

Wiping my glassy eyes on my shirt, I glanced at my phone. “Oh God, no. Please no,” I cried as I read the latest headline. “Anything but that. Anything. Make it anything but that.”

Kylee Stevans, 16. Cresent City, California.

I read it when it aired first. I didn’t believe it at first, but as I soaked it in, it became more and more real.

“The spread of the virus has been confirmed,” the newscaster said, keeping his voice level and flat, “to be transmitted apparently by the oils in the human skin. Therefore, anything that receives the oils from an infected person is capable of transmitting the virus. This is what has resulted in the rapid spread of PINS, as everything that infected people touch is spreading it. The length of potency for the virus is currently unknown, so we are unaware at this point as to how long the virus is viable in the oil on human skin.”

I turned off the television. What was happening? How were we all to survive something spread by the oil on someone’s skin? I looked over at Gabe, playing on the floor with some blocks, blissfully innocent to the terror of the world. I had to protect him. I had to save him from everything.

The sounds of fingers on a keyboard tapped out a repetitive song from the office. They were so busy with themselves. There was no concern for us – the children they were supposed to care for. Granted, one didn’t care at all, being nothing more than a toy that made my father look good. But surely he’d care at some point. Surely he’d step out of the room, giving us a plan on how we were going to be safe.

Ah, but no. It was never, never to be. I was on my own, relying on myself alone to keep us safe. My heart hardened. I knew how I could keep us safe and well. The people that called themselves my parents didn’t have to have a say in this matter. Only I – the person who would survive – would plan safety.

I started searching and planning. I was going to make this work. It was a wild, rebellious plan, but I wanted to do it. I had a vehicle. I had money. I had the skills needed to make it alone. I couldn’t stay here where other people’s oils would be brought in on groceries, mail, or anything else from the outside.

I looked back at my brother. I would keep him alive.

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This week, I got to go somewhere with some of my family. We have some family over in the Oklahoma area, so after college ended, we decided to take a trip to them. While we were there, we planned on visiting a place I’ve wanted to see for a while. Here’s the trip, along with pictures I took!

I’m down in lower Missouri, so it’s quite a trip to go to Oklahoma, especially when there’s a road closure and you have no internet down in the valley and have no idea where to find the detour because Missouri doesn’t believe in directional signs apparently. However, we made it.

One of the places we visited was Robbers Cave by Wilburton, Oklahoma. Not only is this place really cool with all the rocks that you’re allowed to climb all over, but it’s covered in history - even some family history to me. Back in the days of outlaws in the Wild West, people like Belle Starr and the Younger Boys (all outlaws) would hide out here. My family is descended from the Younger family, so it was really cool to walk on land that my great-great-great-great uncle (I think that’s the right amount of ‘greats’) hid on.

Now, I’m a lover of the mountains. Anyone that’s met me in person finds out very quickly that the outdoors is my favorite place to be, but a mountain range is so alluring to me. Getting to stand on a cliff edge, looking out over the forests, was right up my alley.

The sea of green was something that is hard to describe. It stretched on and on, slowly turning blue as it melded with the sky.

The caverns and ravines in the rocks were fascinating. There was one spot called The Corral where the outlaws would stack a bunch of trees and other materials around them to block the horses in. It was wild to stand in it, looking up the straight walls.

On the very top of where we climbed was a collection of very flat rocks. Apparently, there is a tradition to build cairns on top of these super flat rocks. My two siblings that came with me each built a creation there, scraping their names and date into the stone.

Now, these pictures don’t do the whole place justice. However, they do it better justice than the next place I went to.

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Heavener, Oklahoma. I went to Heavener. For anyone that’s been reading my weekly serial, you should recognize that place.

In Heavener, there is a rock with what looks like Viking runes on it. While historians debate on what it says, or even if it’s real, I went and visited it. I had one thing to see before I walked down to the runes though. At an overlook, I was able to look over the entire town of Heavener and it’s outskirts.

And I was able to locate where Verity lives. To be fair, according to the timeline, she won’t be born for a bit yet, but her home on Stand Pipe Road is here.

Her home would be in the space between those two trees on the left of the picture above. I’m still in disbelief that I got to see her place from where I stood. I didn’t want to actually drive down there, as it is a private drive and I didn’t want to get arrested or shot.

Then, I went to the runestone. It was nestled down in a little valley in the mountain, near a tiny waterfall in the stone.

They had the stone itself covered by glass to protect it from erosion and other potential damage, so the runes were still really easy to see.

If anyone can read ancient Nordic, feel free to translate.

I’m home now, but over the entire trip, I took between 400 and 500 pictures. I found a lot of mushrooms (another love of mine), stood on mountains, walked on historical land, and climbed miles of stone (or at least, what felt like miles). The highlight however, was getting to see where Verity lives.

Yes, I’d love to go where my other characters are too. Maybe someday I’ll be able to do so. Everyone else is pretty far from where I live though, so that’d be quite a trip. However, I’m so glad that I got to take this trip. It was breathtaking.

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…

Wilder Ashton, 17. Silverton, Colorado.

I found him on Instagram a few days after we met. The happy look in his eyes haunted me. A month ago, he didn’t know. He didn’t realize he’d be standing on a mountain, slowly fading away. That sweet brunette beside him didn’t know he’d be gone. They were forever lost in their own oblivion, never guessing that they wouldn’t get the future they were hoping and dreaming for.

I found pictures of his family. He had three sisters, all younger. There was a photo of him at Christmas, in the middle of a wrapping paper fight with those girls. Another had him covered in sand while his youngest sister dumped a bucket of water on his head. He escorted his middle sister to prom. He looked exasperated in defeat as all three girls tied his hair up with ribbons and curls.

And now he was probably dead.

It’d been a few days since I’d met him. If I remembered correctly, the virus only took a little over a week to kill you. He was likely dead at this point. Those three girls would never get to play around with their older brother ever again.

Would they look back at these pictures and wonder what could have been? Would they remember laughing? Would they recall his voice as they chased each other through the halls of their home? Would that one sister forever think of him when she danced?

I closed out the Instagram tab and put my head in my hands. I understood. I knew how they’d be haunted. While a virus didn’t take out the ones that loved me most, the pain was still the same.

I straightened. Going to my closet, I pulled out a little box in the very back, behind my shoes and boots. I sat on the floor, leaning up against my bed, as I opened it, slowly looking at the worn contents. My motions were almost instinct at this point. After twelve years of doing it, I supposed that was bound to happen.

Photographs. That’s all I had. Other people had memories. I only had pictures to recall those that built me. They were amazing, I had heard, but I’d never know. They were forever young – forever trapped in a locket of time that saved them from this tragic summer but left the child they had alone.

It was a drunk driver on the mountain that took my parents from me. I supposed it’d have to be someone’s parents. It just ended up being mine. It could have been anyone’s mother, father, sister, brother, friend, lover – but it was my people.

While there was some hate in me when I saw other people with families – other people that had everyone they loved still with them – I mainly just felt empty. I filled myself with things that could be fixed and repaired so they’d never leave. Things that would never die. Yeah, they could break beyond repair, but they’d always sit in the backyard, never going anywhere.

I pulled out the few pictures. I had them printed off so I’d always be able to see them, regardless of internet and electricity. Here was my dad, tall and everything I wanted to be. He looked powerful and tough, like he could take on anything. When I was younger, I was convinced that he didn’t die. He was just somewhere else, heading back to me. He was too strong to be killed by another man. But there was my mom, and I knew he’d have wanted to die with her. I actually took more after her. I wasn’t super tall and muscled like my dad. I was quiet looking, like she was, with large eyes that made boys call you sissy and girls stare. At least in her case, her eyes made girls jealous and boys trip over each other to get her name.

They were a sight there in the wedding photo I had. He towered over her, protective and soldierly. She leaned against him, looking up at him with those doe eyes of hers that she ended up giving to me. He still had oil stains under his nails, and his hair just couldn’t stay as tidy as hers did in the mountain wind, but you could tell that she didn’t care at all how he looked.

Then there were my baby photos. From day one, I apparently had mom’s eyes. There were grease stains on the baby blanket that was wrapped around me from dad’s shirt. Of course, he was out in the shop right before I was born. His face was a mix of awe and fear, but he was only twenty, so who could blame him?

How was he to know that at twenty-five he’d hold his little boy for the last time? How was she to know that her eyes would forever live on with her one child? How were they to know that the baby they coddled for five years would be standing in a world that was slowly dying?

There were other pictures too. Photos of us all together at a west coast beach when I was three, Yellowstone at two, and some southern mansion when I was four. There were photos from all three of our birthdays every year, random ones of me on the counter while mom cooked something up in her little kitchen, and others of me and dad under a vehicle as I was taught the difference between helpful and in the way.

I put the pictures away, closing the box with care. Did Max’s sisters have a little box with the pieces of him that they didn’t want to forget? Would he forever be a shadow of an Instagram post, lost in the world of memory?

I figured I’d rather not know the answer. It might not be pleasant.

Kylee Stevens, 16. Crescent City, California.

I slowly closed the door, then pressed my ear to it, making sure he was still asleep. No sound came from the room. Finally. He’d been so hyper for the past hour. I thought I’d never get him to sleep.

Dad and our stepmom were already asleep on the couch as I crept downstairs. Dad’s computer was still on, so I gently closed it and took it to his office, plugging it back in to charge. I straightened his papers, turned off his lamp, and took his three used coffee cups back to the kitchen. As I poured the leftover cold drink down the drain, I could hear them snoring a room away.

Being as quiet as I could, I pulled an iced coffee from the fridge and headed out to our back deck. I could see the ocean from where I stood, and as I sipped the caramel and coffee drink, I let the whispering waves crash over my mind. I couldn’t hear them snoring. I couldn’t feel an eight-year-old’s little fingers tapping my arm, begging for something he probably shouldn’t have. I didn’t have a thousand things staring at me in the face, telling me to clean them up, put them away, and keep everything perfect and flawless.

To be honest, I was tired. As someone that loved everything to be in its place, I was constantly picking up after Gabe, following him about, grabbing whatever he left behind. However, I could handle that care. It was a necessary care that had to happen.

Then, the majority of the California workforce had to work from home to diminish the spread. That was just the icing on my already busy cake. And for the love of everything beautiful, they were even worse than Gabe. They knew better. They knew to put a dirty plate in the sink. They knew to pick up a used towel off the bathroom floor. They knew that if they splattered spit on the mirror while brushing their teeth that it was mannerly to clean it up. But did they do it? Did they ever try to?

Why no. Of course not. That’s what I was there for.

I nestled myself down in a chair on the deck and watched the shimmer where the stars met the water and the moonlight danced. Having to watch a child was one thing – two adults was another. They were worse. At least Gabe would come up to me sometimes and help me as best he could, his eyes whispering an apology for his messes. The adults just didn’t care. The mess disappeared so it wasn’t their problem. Someone else always made it all perfect.

I was still a child. Why was I the one chosen to maintain and manage everything? Most people don’t have three child-like people to take care of at sixteen. But I did. And oh, how I did.

My eyes fluttered. I leaned my head back and downed the last drops of the coffee. The caffeine had no chance against my aching heart and broken energy. I was standing at the edge of my strength, ready to dive into the realm of sleep.

A bird sang in the darkness, calling out an anthem for those fading into rest and peace. My mind clung to it, holding on as everything dropped out of reality. My body was a blend of a floating feather and a falling stone as it fought itself for sleep. What a beautiful thing it was when your body is on the verge of sleep.

My mind started to wander as rest took hold of me. The stars all blended together as my eyes closed for the last time that day. I curled up in myself, holding on to myself for comfort. One slow breath. There. I was gone, lost in a realm of my own, one that no one could enter and clutter up.

I laid there until the dawn broke across the sea, and a little boy came and touched my arm, asking for a glass of water. Then I began again.

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“The International Trade Administration has announced temporary cancellation of trade from outside of the United States until the spread of PINS slows or ceases. Along with that, the U.S. Department of Transportation has completely cancelled all flights to and from the United States. The States are completely on lockdown at this point.

“Officials urge the public to follow the food limit laws as we are only selling food we have produced, due to the trade cancellation. The public are encouraged to grow what they can for fresh fruit and vegetables. Expect stores to implement limits on food such as milk, eggs, butter, and canned goods, along with items like toilet paper, paper towels, and other paper products. There will likely be a limit on diapers in certain places, along with hand sanitizer.

“Hospitals urge citizens to only come if they absolutely need medical attention. Shopping is encouraged to be done through methods such as online shipping and delivery.

“Please be patient as we work together to slow the spread. Every state has reported several hundred cases of the virus and many states have shut down their largest cities in an attempt to slow the spread.

“This is Katie Hullings, ABC News.”

…

Hadley Briar, 14. Outside of Alliance, Nebraska.

I opened the door to Mrs. Melissa’s house, leaving after a long day. As I picked up my bike and kicked up the stand, I noticed a minivan pulling in her driveway. I stood there. Cocking my head, I watched them. A young girl stepped out, checking her phone as she went to the back of her vehicle.

I was confused for a second, but when she pulled out three bags of groceries, I realized that she was safe. I knew Mrs. Melissa had her food delivered, but typically it was after I left. I checked my phone. I was leaving late. That’s why I saw her.

The girl looked up and saw me in the yard as she walked up to the door. She gave a cheerful wave with her free hand. I hesitantly waved back, then pedaled off, awkward. I hated waving at complete strangers. Some were nice, and I felt safe doing so, like that sweet boy at the gas station. Others were too nice and perfect, and I felt like an impostor, pretending to be happy like they were.

The deep, familiar ache of my heart nestled down in me as I rode away. How could they be so happy? How could they smile when so much was going on all around them? They didn’t have contented smiles either – those smiles where you’re hurting, but you’ve consented to the fact that there’s Someone in control so you’re okay but still hurt. No, these people still had that innocent light in their eyes, and they smiled like nothing had ever happened. It was as if they never had a heavy day in their lives.

Did they realize how lucky they were? Did they know that there were people around them with bruises and scars hidden behind the fake smiles they plastered on, hoping no one would see through the facade of perfection that they wore to blend in? Their eyes sparkled for heaven’s sake. The ache grew bigger. I missed sparkling eyes.

I passed a patch of spring wildflowers and stopped my bike. I could pretend too. I could pretend that I was okay and didn’t think about things that would break innocence. I picked a violet. Another. One more. I could do this.

Silently, I started to braid them. As I worked, a truck would occasionally pass, always a neighbor or an old farmer. More fake waves. The flower crown grew bigger as I added more violets, wild bachelors buttons, and Dame’s rocket. The blues and purples of the flowers gave it a solemn, yet peaceful theme. I wanted flowers like this when I died someday. I liked the quiet aesthetic they gave.

While I braided, I kept thinking. How many people around me never saw the wildflowers on the roadsides? They were so small, purple and blue against the green grasses of the meadows, blending in their humble state. Where were the people that picked roadside flowers? The ones on the road were the prettiest anyway. Who needed bought ones? Who wanted a rose? Roses were just like those perfect people with sparkling eyes anyway. There was no dust and beetle nibbles on them. True flowers and people had imperfections.

I liked the ones with dust. The ones people drove by without looking aside once. I liked them because I was a roadside wildflower myself, driven by and overlooked. I had my holes from the mouths of others; damage that I was supposed to ignore.

Maybe I wasn’t supposed to ignore it. Maybe I was supposed to bloom and let my solemn colors reach the sunlight, unashamed of my scars. Did that mean that I could do it? No. Just because I should didn’t mean I could.

That girl at Mrs. Melissa’s was a rose. She was refined in her innocence. She wasn’t hardened by tragedies. Something had protected and shielded her from people that walked around clothed in sorrow. I was a wildflower. Burnt and forgotten in the ditches, yet somehow I was still alive. I was still thriving. It was a hard resilience, but I was here, braiding a flower crown, pretending my past didn’t happen.

Wildflowers are the strongest. Unlike the roses, they are mowed, eaten, and sprayed. I stood tall, placed the crown on my head, and held it in place with my hair barrettes. I was alive, and that is all that mattered.

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I asked you all on Thursday if you all could give me questions so I could do a Q and A post for today. Well, these are the questions I received! I hope you all enjoy!

Also, if you’d like more of these in the future, let me know. I’d be willing to do them randomly. :)

The Questions:

1. Will any more of the characters meet?

So, in The Silent Summer (my weekly serial), for those that have been paying attention, we’ve already had two characters meet (if you haven’t realized that yet, I won’t spoil it for you). Now, I get to tell you the amazing news that YES!!!! more characters will meet! There will come a time where several characters are together, and I know you all will love it when it comes! I already know that it will probably come with a lot of character shipping, and I can’t wait to see how that goes. So, if you’re hoping certain characters meet, there’s a very, very good chance that they will!

2. What are the characters in The Silent Summer favorite characters in their favorite books? (now that was a mouthful)

Okay. If you want to know their favorite books, you can check out this post tagged here that gives some really fun and cool facts about each main character!

Get To Know My Characters!

Now that you can see their favorite books, here’s their favorite characters from those books.

Alexander Ward - Louie Zamperini.

Josiah Ward - n/a

Callie Evans - Captain Carswell Thorne

Nathaniel Maher - uh… its a history book, so he really doesn’t have a favorite.

Daniel Weston - Rudy Steiner

Verity Brennan - stuck between Mercedes and Albert

Kylee Stevans - Finnick Odair

Hadley Briar - Beth March

Wilder Ashton - um… maybe the carburetor????

3. If you could choose any book to live in, which would you choose?

Not the Hunger Games. 😂 I’d honestly live in Little Women and hope that Laurie actually looked a lot like Christian Bale.

4. What color would you be?

I’d probably be a dove gray or a soft burgundy.

5. What kind of music do you listen to?

I tend to listen to country and folk music. And when I say country, I mean like 80’s and 90’s country because I’m an old soul. I also like old pop from those eras too. I love songs from musicals like The Greatest Showman, and artists like Max McNown, Josiah Queen, The Petersens, Gabby Barrett, and Phillip Phillips.

6. What is the hardest part about writing for you personally, and how do you get past that?

The hardest part of writing for me is actually sitting down and getting the words written or typed. I’m easily distracted actually. When I write, it’s like I have to turn off everything around me that might be taking my attention, because if I don’t, then every two sentences or so, I’m scrolling Pinterest and checking Facebook. Not a lot of words get on paper if I do that. I tend to get up before my siblings, and I make an effort not to scroll social media when I start writing. My best work comes when I really get into a rhythm, and that can’t happen when I’m lost in other people’s business.

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7. What’s the part you love the most about writing?

I love watching my characters grow. To me, they are very real, and it is just the most wonderful thing to watch them go from bitter and kind of unlikable to someone that’d lay down their life for another. Dumping trauma and painful life lessons on them can hurt but seeing how refined they end up is rewarding for me. I would say that my second favorite thing is watching other people connect to my characters. When someone falls in love, understands, or cries for a character that I’ve created; it just makes my heart hurt, but in a good way.

8. Which of your characters is your favorite, and which is the most like you?

Nathaniel Maher is my favorite. I love how he’s awkward and sort of socially clueless, but he has such a heart of gold. He’s creative (as the plot will soon prove), but he’s also serious when the time calls for it. I really hope that as the story goes on, you all will love him as much as I do!

As for a character that’s the most like me, I can’t decide between Verity and Kylee. On one hand, I’m like Verity because I’m a writer, I’m quiet and keep to myself, and I do struggle with things like anxiety and autism (I’m not as hard in it as she is though!). However, I’m an oldest sister like Kylee, super motherly to everyone, and I have a lot of her skills (that you will see in upcoming posts). Thankfully, I don’t have her family drama going on! So, I’m really a blend of both.

9. How do you get started on a project and how do you keep going when it gets tricky?

Typically, I will be daydreaming, casually talking with someone, or listening/watching something and something will hit me. My family can attest that I will just break off from whatever I’m doing and run to my room or the nearest sheet of paper to write it down before I lose it. Apparently, it can be funny sometimes. It can be just one line, or a whole plot.

For when it gets tricky, I step back from it. I’ve got a series that I was working on for about three years now, but even though I’ve got all the plot points plotted, I had to step back from it. If I force myself on it, then I’ll ruin it. I just wait until inspiration strikes and I take it as it comes. I surround myself with the idea and aesthetic of the book as I wait for it to return to me. Once I go back to it, I’m able to write pages upon pages.

10. Favorite color?

I’m one of those people that doesn’t have one single favorite color, so currently I’m tied between olive green, navy blue, and burgundy/wine kind of red. I tend to like deep, rich colors. :)

11. Favorite book you read as a kid?

I don’t know how many times I read The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe when I was younger. I started reading when I was really young, so I was reading full books sooner than most kids, so I probably read Narnia first when I was maybe eight or so. It’s still one of my favorites. I also loved Sarah Plain and Tall, The Velveteen Rabbit, and all of the Ramona books by Beverly Cleary.

…

Well, this was fun! Hopefully you all enjoyed it as much as I did!

Next week’s post will be more fun than this one, but I won’t give much away. Let’s just say I’m doing some book research in the best way possible! :)

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…

Verity Brennan, 16. Heavener, Oklahoma

“Everly’s coming home!!!”

Charity grabbed my hands, pulling me around the best she could. Her laughter was infectious. Her tiny fingers grasped onto mine as tight as she could handle. Seeing that she was so happy, I clung to her wrists and swung her up in the air, sending her into a round of bubbly giggles.

I bent over to catch my breath as I set her down again, looking up at mom as I did so. “Is she bringing Bradley this time?”

My mom shook her head, smiling. “Nope. He’s staying in Tulsa over the summer. Apparently, he found some work there and can’t get away.”

Charity grinned mischievously. “We get her all to ourselves.”

I gave her braid a little tug, sending her little pixie nose snorting with more giggles. “Oh come on. What’s so bad about Bradley?”

“He hogs her, that’s what.” Her sparkling green eyes shone. “At least he brings me chocolate.”

“Yeah, to bribe the future sisters-in-law.” Mom gave a critical glance around the room, shaking her head at a rogue cobweb in a corner. “I really need to get this place cleaned up before she gets here.”

“It’s just Everly, mom.” I commented. “She won’t mind.”

“But I will. I just bet her mother was a clean freak and your father never told me.”

“Yeah. He left her for a reason, remember?”

Charity cocked her head. “They broke up because she was too clean?”

“Oh no, silly.” I picked her up again, loving the joy that spilled from her as I spun her around. “We were just teasing.”

Her face became very serious. “But in Sunday school, Mrs. Ashley said…”

Our mom laughed, a solid, genuine one. “Oh baby, this time is fine. We’re just happy Everly’s coming. That’s all.”

I put my hands on my hips, grinning larger than I had in a long, long time. “I’m gonna get her room cleaned up. She is staying here, right?”

Our mom nodded. “Yep, she is. I guess we won’t have a guest bedroom over the summer again.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Sometimes I think I take more care of her than her mother.”

I spent the afternoon in Everly’s old room, which was now the guest bedroom since she was in college. It still was painted in her favorite colors, decorated with her photography, and had the slight scent of her perfume on the pillows. The gentle lavender theme to the room was calming, peaceful just like she was. As I tidied it up, getting cobwebs from the corners and sweeping under the bed, I put a record on. Everly loved the older things. Of course she had a record player in her room.

I missed her. I missed the way her hair curled if rain was coming, the way her eyes would light up when she heard an owl calling in the distance, the way she’d laugh when she was about to surprise you – I missed it all. The last few years at Oklahoma State hurt. The pain would explode and come out in waves of anxiety. They’d bundle up and spill over, making my mind seemingly go crazy. Then to top that off with Charity getting sick all the time – it was too much. I couldn’t lose another sister.

That’s why I loved summer. I finally got her back, if her boyfriend, Bradley, didn’t keep her instead. I got Everly again. I could pretend like she’d never left, and for three months, I’d live in my happy fantasy ignoring the glaring fact that she’d only be here for three months, and I was only fooling myself again.

This was going to be a perfect summer.

Alexander Ward, 19. Outside of Lewistown, Montana

This was hard.

I wasn’t sure how exactly to go about doing this. Was it socially acceptable to ask your employer for a cow? They didn’t teach you this in high school, and even less so in college. This was a skill I’d have paid money for.

I stood there awkwardly in front of my boss, hoping that this wasn’t going to be weird. With my hands shoved in my pockets, I spoke. “Um, how much would you want for one of your cows, sir?”

He looked up sharply from the feed he was mixing. “You want to buy a cow?”

“Yes sir. I’d like to buy it for meat if that makes a difference. Maybe another for milk later”

“It makes no difference, but son, you of all people know what you’re getting into.” He looked at me, confused. “How are you gonna work with a cow come fall? You’re a college student, remember?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, knowing he had a point, but I needed the meat. “I’m not sure yet on the one for milk, and that’s the only one that’ll mess up college,” I explained. “I do want one for meat though. There’s not much in the stores now.”

He nodded understandingly. “Your brother is still living with you, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“He needs some beef, I guess? I’ll sell you one for five thousand five hundred. How about that?”

I winced inwardly. It was more than I imagined. “Sure. I’ll pay that much.”

“Are you butchering it yourself?”

I looked at him hopefully. “I can try. If I do,” I added, wishing that my hope was real, “would I pay less since you aren’t processing it?”

He shrugged. “Just five thousand.”

Well, it was something. There goes all my savings, I thought. “I’ll do it,” I said, holding out my hand. He shook it, and my head felt light thinking of all that money going to food.

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As I pulled into my driveway with a young bull in a borrowed stock trailer, my first concern was the open window with smoke coming from it. The second concern was the beeping alarm. The third consisted of a brother swearing loudly inside. The cow suddenly became of little importance.

I rushed inside, stopping short at the sight in the kitchen. There was a burnt, smoky tinge in the air, rolling about along the ceiling, curling with humor. On the counter was a stack of black, pancake-like things. Glaring at me from in front of the stovetop was Josiah, shirt dusted with flour. He held a spatula in one hand and had the other wrapped in a towel. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he called out, frustrated, “it’s not that.”

“You’re cooking?” I replied, flabbergasted. “Cause that’s all I’m thinking right now.”

Relief and annoyance fought for control of his face. “I’m making bread.”

“You’re making bread?”

“Yeah. Just look at the masterpiece,” he said sarcastically, gesturing at the stack of charcoal. “I hope you like carbon.”

I poked the pile and watched as portions of it disintegrated into ash. “Flatbread?”

“You could start a fire with it, couldn’t you?”

I hesitated, not wanted to insult his efforts. “I... uh...”

He left the stovetop, the smoking skillet, and the last ball of pitiful dough. It sat there, limp in charred indignity. “I guess a fire has already been started with it,” Josiah commented, glaring at the stack with me.

I looked concerned at his hand. “Was that an injury from the kitchen?”

He forced a grin. “The oil attacked me.” There was a classic eye roll, typical of Josiah. “I barely survived.”

I unwrapped his hand, wincing. “Did you run any cold water on it?”

“Of course not. The bread was burning.”

I took him over to the sink, surprised that he wasn’t protesting my care. He tried to jerk his hand back as the water hit it, but the cold on his bright red skin slowly became soothing. He let his fingers become limp, and he took one ragged breath. “Thanks,” he whispered. “That feels so good.”

I nodded, keeping his hand under the running water. “I remember Dad doing this once,” I said, slowly. “I don’t remember how old I was. You were so little, but you had dropped a rock in the campfire. You just reached in and grabbed it. I remember him picking you up and running you into the house and putting you in the sink, letting the water run all over your hand and arm and you didn’t cry. You never cried.” I got really quiet. “I cried though.”

“I remember,” he answered, voice hoarse. ”You’d given me the rock, didn’t you?”

“I think so.”

“I remember him carrying me. I was just happy that I got the rock back. I don’t remember hurting.”

“I’m glad you don’t remember it.” I left him by the sink, going to the fridge for some butter. “I think Dad put some on this on your burn before.”

“I don’t remember,” he shrugged. “I probably licked it or something dumb like that.”

I tried to hold back my amusement. “Actually, I think you did.”

He tried to keep a straight face, but as soon as he raised an eyebrow, we both broke. Laughing together, his hand curled in pain, my hand holding a stick of butter, we were probably a sight. It felt good to laugh. I hadn’t had this in a long time, and it was good, yet hard at the same time. It was as if I wanted to curl up and grieve, but all my mind wanted to do was pretend that we were fine. So pretend we did. Josiah’s face turned the same shade of red as his hand was, and soon my grip failed, resulting in the butter ending up on the floor.

Finally, as we caught our breath, I shakingly smeared his hand with the poor abused stick of butter. As we choked on the final chuckles, the bellowing of a cow came through an open window. Josiah’s head shot up, startled. “What the...?” he sputtered.

“Oh yeah. I bought a cow.”

His eyes got wide. “You bought a what?”

“Well, a steer to be technical.”

He wrapped his hand in the towel again and took off outside, mumbling uncomprehensible words to himself. He was speechless when he got to the stock trailer and peeked through the window slits. “What are we going to do with this thing?” he asked as I approached.

“We,” I answered, “are going to butcher it and eat it.”

He shot me an unamused look. “No, really. Are you hoping I’m going to milk it or something? Because,” here he waved his toweled hand in the air, “I’m afraid I’m not.”

“I’m not kidding,” I replied, admiring my recent purchase. “First off, it’s a steer. I highly doubt you could get any milk from him. Second, it won’t be alive too much longer because we are going to butcher it. Third,” here I gave him back the look he gifted, “I will need your help processing it.”

Seeing that I wasn’t joking, I was surprised to see Josiah become seemingly excited at the prospect. “Wait. Are we going to, like, pick it up in a tree or something? Or cut it up on the ground? Where are we putting this thing?” He got very serious. “Can I keep the fur?”

“It’s called a hide.”

He rolled his eyes. “Can I keep the hide then?”

“Sure,” I grinned. “I guess he’s rather nice for a cow.”

Josiah peered back at the steer. “Yeah, he’s got all those red splotches on his fur – I mean, hide. I thought cows were only black and white.”

“He’s a Hereford, I think,” I said, looking critically at the animal. “They’re red and white.”

We admired him for a bit. I don’t know what Josiah was thinking, but the only thing in my head was a beautiful steak dinner. All I had to do was actually butcher him. Surely it wouldn’t be too different from a deer. Surely.

“Should we deal with it first,” Josiah asked, “or should we eat something?” He grinned mischievously. “I’ve got coal all warm and ready.”

I hit him in the shoulder, and he playfully returned the blow. His smile was bright and real.

I didn’t realize how alive Josiah was becoming. There was hope for him. He wasn’t as lost as I feared.

Verity Brennan, 16. Heavener, Oklahoma

I first realized she was home when I heard joyful screaming from the living room. I was under the bed, sweeping the far corner. Like a little spider, I skittered out from under my dusty hole, stopping in front of a mirror to pick the dust bunnies out from my brown hair. I hated how they tickled my skin.

I heard a car door slam as I made it to the kitchen windows. Sure enough, there she was, being tackled by a curly-headed nine-year-old, both of them laughing their heads off. I watched them from the window for a while. They were beautiful. The golden evening shone upon them, covering them in glory only the heavens could possess.

Oh, I had to write that down.

I left the window, hurrying to my room. Quickly pulling a leatherbound journal from a shelf, I curled up in a corner and started to write. The words rose in me, drowning all other sounds in my head.

“Covering in golden evening glory

In what only heaven could possess

They stood laughing, holding to the other

An unspoken ‘never letting go’.

Homeward in a golden evening glory

Underneath a marbled painted sky

Let the birds sing the welcoming choir

A tribute only to light they know.”

I looked at it, pleased. Writing was my love – especially poetry. I read through it again, checking for misspellings. The Society for Protection of Cruelty to Spelling, as Everly liked to say, would not support my work, but she did. She always did. I smiled. I’d have to show her this tonight. She’d like that.

The front door slammed, and voices came from the kitchen, bubbling over with joy. Reluctantly, I set my book down, going to welcome my sister.

She didn’t scold me for not running outside. She was gentle like that. She simply wrapped me in a tight hug, calming and unwavering. “Missed you, girl,” she whispered in my ear. “You’ve grown.”

I pulled back. “No, I haven’t,” I protested.

Everly laughed. “Back to back,” she commanded. “You were at my ear when I left.”

We stood straight, heels together, both grinning like the Cheshire Cat. If I’d grown any, it was minimal, as the test showed, but Everly relished in upholding our reunion tradition. Charity then wanted to be next, so I measured them. “She’s past your shoulder blade now.”

Everly whipped around, picking up the squealing little girl in one swoop, tickling her. “You little scoundrel,” she teasingly scolded. “I told you not to grow!”

As they played around, I left, heading outside to Everly’s car. As I lugged her suitcases out of the trunk, she joined me, taking the heavier one. “How have you been?” she questioned as we walked back to the house. “You’ve not had another panic attack, right?”

I shrugged. “Just some small ones. I’m okay.” I smiled up at her. “I just wrote a poem.”

Her eyes lit up. “Show me.”

As she dumped her suitcases in her room, I grabbed my journal. I held the worn leather to my chest as I dashed back to her room, eagerly putting it in her hands. She held it tenderly, as if it was a scroll from the prophets, handed down from a bygone age. We slowly sat on the edge of the lavender bed as her fingers opened the book, softly turning the pages to the one with the crimson ribbon, marking the newest entry. Her lips moved as she read it. She smiled as she finished. “It’s beautiful, just like always.”

I grinned. “Any line that doesn’t work? You can be honest.”

She cocked her head, stewing over what she wanted to say. “Maybe the last line. I don’t know...” She drummed her fingers on the leather cover. “I just feel like it needs something.” She reached over and put her arm around my shoulders. “I still believe it’s beautiful just the way it is though. Just make sure it’s your voice, not another’s, that you’re writing in.”

I took the book back as she handed it over. I’d try to write more tonight.

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With the rise of Artificial Intelligence, I’m scared at what will become of our natural human imagination. As I see this computer program write books, compose music, make pictures, and give advice on life and mental health, I realize just how far we have fallen as a people. Where did we go? Where did our livelihoods and joys fade to that we now think that it’s okay to let some inanimate object take over our creativity?

I, for one, absolutely hate AI.

I’ll say it until my dying day. I can’t stand the thing. The thought of everything beautiful that a human ever came up with in their head now being taken over by what’s pretty much a robot is devastating.

Yet I’m supposed to be happy about it. It’s the future. It’s the new thing that is going to make my life better and easier. It’s faster and interesting and revolutionary.

And it’s destroying us.

At this point, if you are a good writer, you are accused of using AI. Apparently, talented writing is now rare for a human. So rare that a computer is considered first when someone reads detailed essays and reliable citations.

Alas Babylon. How you have fallen.

I have to be careful when I listen to older folk songs because so many of them online are AI generated to sound Irish or Scottish. They aren’t actual songs. They were created by a computer. Those aren’t people singing or playing instruments.

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Talent is fading. If a computer can do it for you, why bother picking up an instrument, a pen, a paintbrush, and learning that you have skill for it? Years of practice never have to be done. It’s all done in an instant. Beautiful voices will not be searched for - they will be created. Art will not be designed - it will be generated.

Why? Why have we let this happen?

If this is the future, then how we have fallen.

Look at what we used to do. Look at the skill and creativity we had. Look at the mystery that we had in our hands, applying them to the stone and wood that we had access to, armed only with simple, uncomplicated tools.

Think of the music we used to create. Think of the thunder in the halls, the shout of the choir as we screamed out life and light to the nations. Think of the cry of the strings as we reached for something greater and higher than ourselves. Think of the entrances we made as we greeted kings and those of royalty with ceremonial fanfare.

Think of the art we used to make. Think of the colors thrown upon each other, blending to make lilies in a pond or a lover of a decade past. Think of the ships that would forever be remembered, the flash of a dancing acrobat flying by, and the frozen sunsets that became immortal. Portraits of kings and queens, forever gazed upon in awe.

Castles that commanded the landscape, towering over the sheep and rivers below. Giants of stone, watching, waiting, wondering when the next attack would arrive. Hoping for another test to show their authority. Begging with the sky that they scraped with their spiraling towers for a chance to prove themselves.

Now what do we have? A few typed words and a computer made image. You then share that image. One or two likes come in. You are satisfied.

Alas Babylon.

Guys, find your creativity. You are worth so much more than some computer. Your thoughts and ideas are valid and valuable. Your imagination is so amazing that you don’t even know the places it can go. Think of the worlds you can create. There is a magic in your fingertips that can create something that will hold your life to it long after your bones are resting in the earth. Proof that you lived. Proof that you loved something enough to make it real. Proof that you used the mind that you were given in the way that it was designed to work.

Use the em dash. Use the sparkle emojis. Write. Sing. Create. Pour your imagination into whatever you do. Anything you make is better than what a computer can spit out. Design. Dare. Do what only you can. Use your mind.

Find your imagination.

Don’t let a computer take the gifts you were given.

Use them.

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Are you enjoying it so far? Let me know if you’ve got a favorite character, if your favorite has changed as you’re reading more, or if you have a favorite part yet? :)

…

Nathaniel Maher, 17. Thirty minutes from Crawford, Nebraska.

Why was I nervous? I knew these people – not very well, but I knew them. Yes, I may have only seen Carson last about three years ago at a family reunion and never bothered to make further contact. Yes, we may have not gotten along at said reunion due to differences in our interests. And yes, we kept all this from our parents. It was best that they thought that we were great friends.

Carson was a great kid. He just was a lot wilder than I was. While I preferred to sit in a corner and read, he found a way to climb up on the rafters of the family cabin and drop toy spiders on people’s heads. I had the most dropped on me, I swear. We were fourteen then – old enough to act responsible, or at least, so I thought.

I wasn’t that far from his home. I could see the buttes in the distance that he had talked about when he described his home. The dust billowed out behind me from the dirt road. Sawlog Road – interesting name. I was supposed to stay on this until the name changed or something like that. I glanced at the map on my phone. Yeah, something like that.

I was glad to see that he actually had trees. That was honestly my biggest worry – that it’d just be flat land, and there was going to be no semblance of green. Compared to my land, he had a pitiful amount, but I supposed I had to be happy with what I could get.

With one hand on the steering wheel, the other fiddled with my jean jacket, picking at the fraying edges. What would he be like now? Would he have calmed and become someone slightly enjoyable to be around instead of being a feral teenager? Were all teens like that? No, I reminded myself, some sat in pickups and drew strangers. Some were quiet and calm.

Closer. Closer. I was almost there. The GPS was now calling this Table Road. I liked Sawlog better. It was unique. At least they had pines out here. Very sparse and sad pines, but pines either way.

I slowed in front of an old yellow house with some scrubby trees and felt that nervous lump settle in my gut. Here I was. Here was my summer in one place. Here was everything new.

As I parked, a tall, honey blond young man stepped outside, cocking his head as he saw me. For a halting moment, I was worried that I’d found the wrong place, then he grinned.

Oh, he was Carson. Hands down, without a doubt, purely Carson.

As we stood, waiting for the other to speak first, I mentally compared us. We were no different from how we were, but maybe that was for the best. Both tall and slim, that’s where our resemblance ended. Here I was trying to be comfortable and well dressed at the same time, and he only had jeans and combat boots on. His smile was quick and fox-like, and I simply stood, somber and awkward.

He spoke first. “Still into all that war stuff?”

My throat was so dry. “Yeah.”

“Thought so.” He stuck out a hand. “Nice to see you again.”

I shook the offered hand out of manner’s sake. “Nice to see you too.” Why was I so stiff around family when I could talk to absolute strangers on a whim at gas stations?

“What’s it been,” he asked, “three years now? You haven’t changed.”

I forced a smile. “Is that a compliment?”

He shrugged. “Sure. You can take it that way.”

So, it wasn’t a compliment. He hadn’t changed – that was very clear. I remembered his passive aggressive comments from years ago. I supposed it fit with the wild, reckless young man that was standing before me now, shirtless and bold.

Not sure how to work with this for the next few months, I decided to just do the next thing that I could. Without saying a word, I threw open the door of my truck, a little more forceful than needed, and yanked out my suitcases. They thudded to the ground, heavy with books.

To his credit, Carson bent and picked one up without me asking. He said nothing about the weight – in fact, he didn’t seem to notice that it was heavy. Even when he was being helpful for once, he still made me feel inferior.

We hauled the suitcases into the house, through the living room where I accidentally knocked over his baby sister’s bottle, up the stairs where we had to paste ourselves against the wall as two of his siblings ran past us, and finally resting in his room where I’d be staying over the summer. A cot was set up in the corner of the room underneath a large poster for the second Top Gun movie. It was already piled up with shirts and assorted nicknacks, and Carson hurriedly shoved everything off of it, as if I didn’t have enough time to see the mess he made. As he kicked it under his bed, I shuddered to think of everything already under there. He was not a tidy person.

He simply stared at me as I slid the suitcases under the cot. “You don’t need to hang anything?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you just brought a lot of books.”

I shot him a look. “Is there room in the closet?”

He threw open the thin and flimsy doors. “Yeah, sure.” With one hearty shove of the clothes all to one side, he gestured to the new space at the end of the closet. “How much did you bring?”

“Not a lot.” I pulled out a few shirts and nicer jeans. “Just some for church.”

He raised an eyebrow at the clothes. “Those seem pretty nice just for church.”

“You’re supposed to dress nice for church.” I said slowly, looking at him carefully. “Aren’t you?”

“Sure I dress nice for church,” he replied, grinning again. “Don’t a t-shirt and jeans work though?”

“No button-ups?”

“No. Why?”

“Not even a polo shirt?”

“At funerals.”

“What about an overshirt?”

“Oh, sometimes I wear a jacket if it gets cold.”

I looked at him, exasperated.

He continued, oblivious. “It’s this nice leather one just like pilots used to wear. I’ve got the glasses to go with it too.”

I was speechless. I came from a church where most of the men wore ties. I felt like I was in another country now, with new ways of dressing and living and churchgoing. How would they worship? Did they eat differently? What world had I walked into?

He took the clothes and hung them, clearly amused. I chose to leave my more casual attire in the suitcases. It’d save space and hide the embarrassing amount of books I brought. He’d laugh. I just knew it. I’d just have to read them when he was asleep, if he slept that is. He looked like the type of person that stayed up till two in the morning high on caffeine.

There was a moment where we just sat on our beds and stared wordlessly at each other, contemplating the reality of our situation. We had a whole summer to make any friendship between us work and at this moment, it didn’t look too hopeful.

Callie Evans, 15. Clarksville, Tennessee.

Nate never said a word about that night. However, he worked hard to keep me busy, hoping that it’d keep me out of trouble. He tried to find me a job at a flower shop, but they didn’t want a germy teenager there. He tried a bakery next, but they denied me for the same reason. He really didn’t want me working around a ton of people, with the virus and all, so his ideas for work were severely limited. I appreciated his effort, but I wished he tried to find more jobs that involved music.

As he kept me locked away in the house, like a princess in her tower, I turned to my music. I could only clean my room so many times without going crazy. I could weed mom’s attempt at a flower patch so much until I couldn’t take the blisters on my hands. I was only human. Surely no one could blame me for escaping how I could.

Standing on our back porch, violin crying out to the sunset, I felt like a poem in a person. There was magic in the music, lilting and free. I let my soul fly into the rich colors of the sky. Here was joy. Here was liberty.

The screen door opened, with Nate stepping onto the porch with me. The sunset glimmered off his hair, making it redder than ever, accented by golden streaks that gave his head a handsome, dark honey color. As I played, he recognized the song. In his beautiful baritone voice, he joined in, adding so much more than I ever could on my own.

“The world’s on fire, I burn / Happily dancing with you

Take my body, and I’ll be / The soul you come crashing into

If it has to be the end / All I ask is that I get

To burn with you.”

Slowly, tenderly, he repeated the last line, holding that last note as the violin trembled in the air, fading at last. We stood there for a moment, silent, thinking as the music clung to the last bits of air remaining for it.

“Were you able to find anything today?”

He shook his head, leaning up against the railing of the porch. “Nope. No one wants to bring anyone new in. Everyone’s scared.” He absentmindedly picked at the wood rail with his fingernail. “Sorry.”

I tucked my instrument under my arm. “It’s alright,” I shrugged. “You did your best.”

“But it should be better. When I was your age,” he protested, “I could get a job anywhere. No one was afraid.” His jaw was set firmly, almost in anger. “You shouldn’t have to live your childhood in a time like this.”

“Mom and Dad had to.”

“But that doesn’t mean you do.” I watched him grit his teeth. He stayed silent as he mulled over angry thoughts, and I let him stew over things for a bit. He was wise. He’d have an answer for any non-existent reply that I might create in my head.

“Callie,” he whispered, “can you promise me something?”

I stared at him, concerned. “Of course I can.”

“If anything happens, you’ll survive for us, right?”

I took a step towards him, startled in worry. I leaned my head against his shoulder. “Nate?”

Without a word, he took my violin from my arms and propped it up against the porch railing. Then, he wrapped me in the kind of hug only someone taller, stronger, and loving can give. The kind of hug that drowns out everything else, letting only their heartbeat fill your ears. He rested his head on mine, holding me so tight and so secure.

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I was a little alarmed. What was wrong with him? He was never scared like this. He was invincible. Why was he concerned over the virus this much?

When he finally spoke again, his voice was hollow and blank, yet so full of emotion and fear. “You’ll live for us?”

Still buried in his embrace, I replied, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not blind,” he said, his words the loneliest and worried I’d ever heard. “No one survives this. If you get it, you die – at least, that’s what the trends are showing.” He released me, getting down on his knees to see my face. Holding my hands, he continued. “No matter what happens, you’re going to survive, promise me.”

“What do you mean?” My voice trembled.

“I mean that I’ve stopped looking for something for you to do. I’ve stopped trying to get you to be busy. I can’t have you going outside. I can’t have you catch it. You’re only fifteen. You have your whole life ahead of you. You aren’t going to die young.”

My jaw dropped. “You think it’s that bad?” If anyone else said that it was bad, I would doubt them. Nate was different. He wasn’t someone to overreact over things like this. If he was concerned, there was a valid concern. That’s just how he worked. A cold shiver ran over my skin. How did he get to this point?

“I know it’s that bad. Mr. Howard’s granddaughter caught it. She’s about your age, isn’t she?”

My blood ran cold. Raelynn Howard caught it. Lively, wonderful Raelynn. Nate worked for her grandfather, so we’d known each other for years. Now she was ending. Even though she had become a bold, trouble-seeking girl, she was still an old friend, even if she wasn’t as close as me and Lainey were. She was going to die. How? How could someone like her just die? I nodded to answer Nate’s question, shocked.

“Hearing that, I thought of you. She could’ve been you. You could be the young girl laying in a hospital bed, your skin burning away. I could lose you.” Tears were running down his face, making his light olive-gray eyes shimmer. “Promise me you won’t do anything to get it.”

I swallowed back a broken and lost sob. “I won’t.” Oh, he was making me cry too. “I won’t get it for you.”

He wrapped me up in a hug again. As the sun sank down into the depths of the sky, we remained there, holding onto each other, never wanting to break that bond that we had. Nate was my rock, and I was his joy. As the first stars rose, they reflected in our tears, now turning cold in the coming darkness.

Daniel Weston, 18. Port Wentworth, Georgia.

I was watching the sunset.

Well, I wasn’t really watching it. It was conveniently there as I leaned against the shack of a trailer that I lived in. Now, everything was falling apart like normal, but it was just a little more gold from the fading light.

I honestly liked the colors that shone on everything in the golden hour. They had life, something that was rare around here. Most things were dead or dying – especially the people. We may be breathing, but there was no life in us. There was nothing to live for. No one to protect, save ourselves.

But now, this time, I supposed that I was different. For once in my life, someone might need me to be there. While there was fear and shock in that thought, I couldn’t help but feel a little honored. I felt wanted. There may be a day when Riley would need his uncle there for him, and I’d be the one that he’d need to rely on. I was scared to death that I’d mess all of it up, but the idea of it finally gave me something important to hold myself straight.

I’d been on my own since I was fifteen, so I was used to being alone. Morgan had offered to take me in, but my pride was too high to have him do that. I was going to build my own life, independent of anyone else. Even though I saw what it did to others, I still wanted to build myself on my own, with my friends, doing what I wanted, and when and how I wanted to.

My independence ended up being very lonely unfortunately. I was in my messes too deep at this point to leave them, so I stayed. This is how I was raised anyway. I supposed only really lucky people ever got out, like Morgan. He was able to become someone respectable, even if he was raised in the slums just like I was, running drug deliveries and deals for our dad.

That was why I was scared to be around Riley too much. What if he tried to be like me? What if he wanted to be independent because I was? If I had to take of him, would he forget what his parents taught? How much training do you have at six years old anyway? Was I going to ruin him?

As I stood outside, fretting about all the hypothetical outcomes that could come from me being a babysitter – which was something I never thought I’d be – I heard one of my friends call my name from inside the trailer. They all had the TV volume up high enough that I could hear it through the wall, but Jack had a pretty impressive voice, so it could cut through anything, even an annoying ad break. I took one last look at the fading gold and went inside, tired of worrying.

The boys were draped all over what we called our living room. Two were on the couch, one was slumped over in a folding chair, one guy was leaning against the TV, and the final one was face-first on the floor, mumbling something about shiny colors. I stepped over him as I entered. He’d be fine.

One of the guys gestured impatiently at the TV when he saw me enter. “What’d ya’ do?” he questioned. “Yer face is plastered all over on that thing.”

Another guy looked up as I walked by him, setting down his drink. “Yeah, yer gonna git us all pounded if ya’ can’t keep from being seen.”

“What are ya’ talking about?” I asked, plopping myself down in front of the couch, thinking that they were trying to pull my leg again, but I stopped when I saw her face on the screen.

It had to be her; there was no doubt. She was on there going on and on about some young man that called in an ambulance for her about a week and a half ago while she laid on her bedroom floor. Apparently, she’d broken something getting out of bed – I guessed older people did that a lot – and had been there for days. I knew who she was. No one else would fit that story.

While I was glad to see that help had gotten to her, there was one big, concerning, glaring fact that couldn’t be ignored. If my picture was on there, that could only mean one thing. Blood running cold, I listened to her.

“It’s hard to think of him as a thief,” she was saying while the reporter nodded, probably not really listening. “He seemed so nice when he found me. He promised to get me help, and he did. He kept his word. This generation doesn’t tend to do that too much, don’t they now?”

The reporter continued nodding and smiling that fake smile. “Of course, Mrs. Redford. But don’t forget what you found missing.”

“Oh yes,” she mused, waving her scrawny hand about with impatience. “Would you please quit fussing over all that so much? I’m going to be dead soon enough anyway. What’s the point of all that junk?” Her voice was annoyingly high pitched. “If it were up to me, he’d-”

The camera cut away and the audio conveniently went out, taking us back to the reporter. He was obviously wincing and doing a terrible job at hiding it. “Mrs. Lillian Redford found that several thousand dollars’ worth of family heirlooms were missing after she was released from the hospital. Ring™ camera footage showed two males breaking into her home shortly before 9-1-1 was called, with no activity seen before. Police say that the identities of the two men are not confirmed, but AI assistance has given us an idea of the burglars’ appearance.”

All of us groaned as stills from the cameras appeared on the screen, with mine and Mason’s faces cleared up nicely, making us now recognizable.

Well, kind of recognizable.

I apparently had green eyes, longer hair, and the start of a mustache. Mason’s bronzed tan was lightened, one of his front teeth wasn’t chipped, and the wave to his hair was flattened. I knew that it was supposed to be us, but to anyone else, I doubted that they’d realize who it was supposed to be.

One of the guys sprawled out on the couch raised his head. “Is that yer freaky cousin ya’ never told us ‘bout?”

I shook my head, trying to laugh it off. “Nope. No idea who that is.”

He simply raised a doubtful eyebrow but said nothing more. I picked at the scrubby carpet, hoping no one would see the slight resemblance. If anyone did, they didn’t say it. One good thing about these guys – if you screwed up, they were likely to never notice.

“So,” I questioned, “ya’ said I was on there?”

“Oh yeah,” another one muttered. “They had a thing for the oil place you work at, and they had ya’ on there.” He shrugged. “Though it was a little cool.”

A breath that I didn’t realize I’d be holding finally released. Maybe I was safe.

Then my phone rang.

Nevermind. Morgan had watched the news too. I stood and left the room, locking myself in our filthy bathroom just to get a little privacy. Answering the call, I forced out a, “Hello.”

“That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Uh....”

“Don’t lie to me. Is that why you had to hide your bike?”

I paced irritatedly in what little space I had. “No, that’s cause I.....” I replayed in my head when I’d clipped a police car the other day and decided not to give further detail. “I just had something going on.”

“Yeah, you had stolen an old lady’s stuff, and the cops are looking for you.”

“They aren’t looking for me. They’re looking for a green-eyed dork and his sickly friend.”

“Daniel.” Oh, he did not sound amused. “You can’t be doing this now. We need you out of jail.”

“Then I’ll stay out of jail,” I replied sharply. “I’ve done it before.”

“And you’ve also been there too.” He sighed. “Why? Why can’t you just try to live another way?”

“Because I’m not you. I can’t just get a lot of money and buy a house in a good part of town like you did. No one wants to help a kid that’s been to jail. I’m on my own.”

“Claire and I have offered-”

“Yeah, you offered and what did I do? I had police at your door within the month. Riley could’ve seen that. He could’ve seen me cuffed and dragged to the car. I don’t want that.” I closed my eyes, lowering my voice from the anger it had been holding. “It’s better that I’m here.”

“Fine. If that’s what you think, go ahead. There’ll be a home here for you though.”

I remained locked in the tiny room long after the phone call ended. I wanted to be alone more than ever.

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What’s the point about creating all the details with your characters? If no one is ever going to read some of them, then why have them? Aren’t you just wasting your time?

Well, no. You aren’t wasting your time at all. Every little detail, every little thing that you create in the character’s personality, is useful. Even if the audience never sees it, it still builds the story.

There are so many things in my book, The Silent Summer, that you all will never hear. They are meant for me. They are things that I carry because they’ve made the character come alive for me. Names, dates, dreams, hates, events - I know so much about them. They are real to me.

But if you’re never going to know, then why did I bother?

Because that is what drives the story. If I didn’t know the details about their past, how would I model their actions? How would I explain why they did what they did? Nothing is done just because - unless I thought it’d be fun.

In The Silent Summer, I’m working with a lot of different characters. They all have their own separate pasts, and those pasts fuel the decisions that they are making now. When you see consistency, I see reason. You may get glimpses of the past, as you’re seeing their thoughts, but I know the intricate web that brought them to that point.

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In my head, I see Hadley under a bed, listening to her father screaming and yelling at her mother. I see Callie on a 4-wheeler, zipping on trails with her friends. I see Daniel at 15 years old, watching wide eyed as the police car pulls up, and I feel his heart drop as he knows who they’re there for. I see a little Josiah trying to keep up with his older brother, his tiny feet hurting as he chases him. I see the confusion on Kylee’s face as she reads disappointment in her mother’s face after Gabe’s birth. I see it all.

Everything that I never cover in the book still builds the character’s story. One great tip that writers will teach you is to “show not tell.” By holding these details back, you are showing who the character is, rather than just letting everything out and telling the audience why without any emotion reason. Instead of saying, “Character Z always did this certain thing because of this other thing,” just have the character do it. The audience might get a glimpse of why later, but only when you show them.

You can tell someone how the character got to that point, but it is more effective to show the personality by holding back the why until the perfect time.

When you go to explain the why, don’t dump it like facts in a history textbook. Sprinkle it in. Leave a detail or two out. Maybe add it later. Maybe not. Make the reader think. Make them imagine and ponder and create.

This also makes amazing fan fiction later in life if the book gets popular enough.

Just saying.

So, that’s why I create these huge, detailed backstories for my characters that you very well may never get around to seeing. I get to make a little mystery for you. I get to make you connect to the characters by little moments that might take you off guard, having you stop reading, whispering to yourself, “wait - she’s been doing that because of this the entire time???” Also, I’m able to keep the story running. I don’t get stuck thinking to myself, “why are they doing this again?” I know the backstory. I know where they were and where they want to go from day one.

Have fun with your characters. Create backstories. Give them traits based on those. Make them come alive.

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As the journals get longer for each character, some weeks we might just get two viewpoints, like this week. So, don’t worry, we’ll get back to more characters soon. :)

Daniel Weston, 18. Port Wentworth, Georgia.

I pulled up to my brother’s house, dumping my motorcycle next to his old minivan. As I stepped away from it, I looked back, realized that anyone could see it, so I shoved it in his dense hedgerow. There. Much better.

My older brother, Morgan, stared at me through the screen door. “And that was done for what?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow as I approached. “Have you-”

“Maybe.” I stood there awkwardly on his front steps, hands in the pockets of my leather jacket. “I just didn’t want it seen.”

He opened the screen door to let me in but had a thousand questions running about his face. “Did you get in trouble again?”

I opened my mouth to reply, feeling chastised beyond belief, but I was miraculously interrupted. My leg was tackled, making me stumble back against the door frame. “Hey Riley.”

His big eyes stared up at me. “Hey!” His grin was infectious, with a gaping hole from a missing tooth. “I got a train! Come see it!” Before I could protest, he was tugging at my hand. “Come on! It’s blue, the wheels turn, and when I pull it back, it makes a clicking sound, and-”

I let him lead me into his room, a cluttered nest of trucks, trains, and tractors. On a rug, he had a wooden train track set up with hills, buildings, twists and turns, and trains everywhere. I knelt beside it as he rambled on, showing me some new toy train he got. He was obsessed with anything with wheels, which ultimately ended up making him idolize me, much to my brother’s dismay. I had a motorcycle and worked on cars and had once ridden in a police car and now I was the coolest uncle he had. I didn’t tell him why I was in the police car. I didn’t want to spoil his idea of me.

“Uncle Danny.” His voice broke me out of my mental wanderings of past mistakes and continuing ones. “Can I ride the motorcycle now? I’m six now and you said when I was five that I needed to be older and I’m older now and that means that I can ride it, don’t it?” He set his new train down and gave me a deep, mature look. Man, this kid acted older than me sometimes.

“Well, uh....” I ran through my head, trying to come up with an answer that didn’t sound like an excuse, or a dirty blame shift on his parents. They were working so hard to raise him good. I didn’t need him getting wrapped up in my messes. “I’d let ya’ ride if your dad says its fine. However,” I hurriedly added, seeing his eyes light up in alarming excitement, “he’ll probably want ya’ to wait ‘til you’re a little bit taller – okay?”

His eyes fell as I spoke. Even though his excitement could be annoying, I kind of missed it a bit. Boy, was he making me feel guilty. I could never be a parent. How on earth was someone supposed to deal with their faces and wishes like this when they gave you looks like that and all you wanted was to give them the moon just so their little grin would light up again? “Hey buddy,” I added. “What if I try to get ya’ on a horse next time I got a rodeo that you’re at? Your dad should let ya’ do that.”

There was the light again. He jumped up, bolting out of the room to find his parents and spread the uncontainable joy that he was going to ride a horse. The whole concept of me confirming the possibility with his parents was forgotten, but I could get to that later. I followed him out of his room, wading through the sea of toys to get to the door. How much did one kid need?

I found them in the kitchen, with Morgan and Claire, Morgan’s wife, leaning against the countertop, listening confusedly at their son’s ramblings. I stood awkwardly right outside of the room, hesitant to enter. I felt out of place, like a cat in a dog pound. For being my brother, he was a lot cleaner and respectable compared to me. Then again, he got out of Dad’s house faster. No wonder he did so well.

Morgan raised his head and cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’re going to get him on a horse in the rodeo?”

“Oh man – no.” I hurriedly explained. “I’m gonna try to get him a ride on a horse there after everything; you know, when the show’s over and all. I was gonna ask-”

Claire and Morgan exchanged a look, and the awkwardness rose even higher than I could’ve imagined. Maybe I’d drown in it. That’d be nice. “It’d have to be after the virus calms down,” Claire said slowly, like she was trying to calm a wild animal, which to be honest, wasn’t that far from a good description of me. “We’ve not let him leave since it started in Georgia.”

“He hasn’t left the house how long?” I entered the kitchen as Riley bolted past me, calling out something about a truck with seal mass. Surely, I heard that wrong. I propped my head up with my hands as I joined the adults by the countertop. “Why?”

“We don’t want him catching it,” my brother explained. “It’s not exactly rocket science.”

I decided not to comment. I agreed anyway that this sickness thing seemed to be something. I wasn’t going to argue with him.

Morgan continued. “I’m honestly worried that I’ll bring it home from work at the factory. He can’t get it.” His voice was tinged with dark, rank fear. “I can’t imagine if I found out that he had it.”

Claire came up to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I typically didn’t like people touching me, but I made an exception for Claire. She was nice. I always imagined her kind of like an older sister that I never got. With her embroidered jeans, shirt tied in the front, and charm bracelets tinkling from her wrists, she was so classically vintage and sweet. I first met her when I was ten, just as she and Morgan started dating. She paid for a milkshake for me. For some reason, I’d always remember that. Funny what your mind chooses to cling to.

“Daniel,” she asked, “could you do us a favor?”

I shot a concerned glance at both of them. Morgan’s brown eyes were almost black with worry, and Claire’s face reminded me of a dog that just got beaten. “Yeah, I can. What’s wrong?”

Morgan ran his hand along his chin, as if he was trying to find the words that he wanted to say. ‘Don’t hold me in suspense,’ I thought. He was just going to make me want a cigarette, and he’s always at me anyway that they’ll drop me dead someday. It was almost like he liked keeping things tight.

“Could you take care of Riley if need be?” he finally asked. “If Claire or I got sick, could you take him? Could you keep him safe?”

I stared at him blankly. He wanted me to do what? I lived in an old trailer with two of my friends. I showered at truck stops because we had no water, spent my every paycheck from the Take 5 Oil Change shop on food and gas, stole to pay for anything else, and probably had a few warrants to my name. And here he wanted me to take my nephew with me to keep him safe? What did he think I did all day? Sit and smell the flowers?

Claire must’ve seen my hesitation, and added, “We wouldn’t ask unless we absolutely needed you.” She gave me a little hug. “We do trust you, right Morgan?”

I personally thought my brother’s eyeroll response to that was very unnecessary, but to his credit, he actually responded. “We trust you, even if you don’t tell us half the trouble you get into.”

I hated to tell them what I was thinking there, but I knew I had to. Riley couldn’t stay with me if things got rough. In fact, it’d be better for him to stay with a possibility of infection than to spend weeks locked in a moldy trailer with mice in the corners and fleas in the couch. It was no place for a little six-year-old boy. He’d turn out like me. “I don’t know,” I finally answered. “I do anything for him, but my place... He can’t be there. It’s not what he needs. He wouldn’t be safe.”

“He’d be away from people though,” Morgan pointed out, his voice having that tattletale tinge of desperation of a man in fear. “You could hide him. Please.”

I’m not a protector. I’m not safe. I’m not the gentle uncle that he thought I was. I couldn’t have a child in my care. I backed away from the two and shoved my hands in my jacket pockets. “I can’t. I’ll do anything to protect him, but I can’t keep him.” Seeing my brother’s bitter face, I added, “If you need me to take him, I’ll find somewhere for him, but not with me. However, I promise he’ll be safe.”

Morgan still looked livid, and he was trying with all he could to not explode on me. Claire, on the other hand, seemed brokenly content. “Thank you,” she breathed. “I trust you with him. Do whatever you have to, just keep my baby safe.”

Only a shy, curt nod came from me. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. The three of us stared at each other, a quiet, unspoken promise connecting our minds and eyes. Then, cutting through our understanding silence, the beeping of an oven timer squeaked out an annoying call to finished food.

Riley ran in, and my heart felt weird as I saw his little eyes light up at the casserole that his mother was pulling out of the oven. There was this odd ache to it, like it was longing for something lost that wasn’t gone yet. I didn’t want the world to break for him like it did for me. He deserved more. He deserved this life with both parents, a clean and bug-free house, plenty of food, and shoes on his feet.

He didn’t deserve me.

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…

“The virus known as PINS has its first documented cases in other countries around the world. Reporting from London, England is Michelle O’Brien. Michelle?”

“Thank you, Liam. The cases here in London are small, but they are spreading just as fast as in the states. King William the Fifth has declared this a national emergency, considering how it has turned out in the United States.”

“Oh, a national emergency? We haven’t even done that here in the states. Tell us, Michelle, does it seem to be as severe over the ocean?”

“More severe, Liam. The first case was a flight attendant at London Heathrow airport, but within the day, five passengers from that airline came down with the virus as well. Since, more airport personnel have been diagnosed with PINS, and just today, the first Londoner without any connection to London Heathrow has been diagnosed. It is spreading faster here than it did at the start of the pandemic in the states.”

“Well, thank you, Michelle, for that report. Remember, please stay indoors and refrain from interacting with anyone outside. Scientists are still working to find out how the virus spreads, so until we get answers, do not socialize so we can diminish the spread. On other news, the woman from Georgia with the good Samaritan caller, is here for an interview...”

…

Hadley Briar, 14. Alliance, Nebraska.

I was in the passenger seat of Grandpa’s truck, drawing, when I saw him. He looked tired. He leaned against his truck, eyes closed, waiting for the vehicle to fill with gas. Something deep in me hurt for him, but I couldn’t place why.

He was young, maybe 16 or 17, sort of tall, and slim. His blue jean jacket was worn and frayed at the sleeves and hem, and he was missing one of the buttons for the front pockets. His nose was pointy, like mine, so he reminded me of a mouse. Without thinking, I started sketching him in my notebook.

He opened his eyes and stared at me from his pump. Oh, he had a nice smile – very nice to draw. It was one of those shy ones that make you instantly know that they are a good person. He really reminded me of a mouse as I got to see his eyes for the first time. They were large and dark, scared but doing really well to hide it.

His truck finished filling up and he turned away from me. I groaned inwardly as the sunlight hit his hair. Why didn’t I have my colors with me? The chestnut, copper, and gold that made up his thick and wild hair was downright poetic. Black and white would have to do for now, I supposed, though I was sorry to resort to such depressing colors for the life I saw in him.

He wrapped everything up on his side of the station and climbed back up into his truck. I watched his hand hover over the key, then he shook his head. His face was set and determined, but he sighed and left his truck, shoving his hands in his jean pockets as he came over to me.

My hands shook as I hurriedly shoved all my drawing stuff into my bag at my feet. What would Grandpa say if he came out and found me talking to this strange boy? Goodness, he was older than me by several years for sure. Served me right, watching everyone like I did. Maybe I shouldn’t have come into town today or left the truck window open for air and pure light.

He stopped a little bit away from Grandpa’s truck, and stood there awkwardly, working up the nerve to say something. How I wanted to bury myself in the passenger seat and hide forever. He seemed nice, but this was too much stranger interaction for me.

“Did you finish your drawing?” he asked. “I, uh, know what it’s like to not be able to finish something, so I thought I’d ask.”

His accent was so interesting. It was slow and easy, like honey on bread. He had to be from down south. He didn’t sound like anyone around here. I numbly shook my head, shy beyond belief.

“Would you like me to stand somewhere for a bit so you can finish it – if you wanted to that is?” He smiled again, this one being shyer than the last one was. “I don’t mind. I’m not far from where I’m going anyway.”

“You can stand there,” I replied, my voice super quiet. “That’ll work. I just have to get your arms and jacket.”

I quickly pulled all my stuff out again as he stayed there, waiting patiently for me. It was nice, having someone be patient. My nervousness slowly eased as I started sketching him again, trying to finish before Grandpa left the store at the gas station. The boy and I didn’t speak. We were lost in our own silence, and I didn’t mind. He was good to be quiet with.

I finished the last stroke and gave him a tiny nod. “I’m done. Thank you.” I waited for him to ask to see the final project, dreading it. I didn’t like showing people my art, but if he asked, I supposed he’d have a right to see it, it being of him and all.

But he said nothing. “It was no problem,” he assured me, turning to walk away. “I’m sure it turned out great.” I simply smiled quietly as he climbed back into his truck. Just before he drove away, he rolled his window down. “Godspeed,” he called out, raising a friendly hand for a wave.

I raised my hand, too. “Godspeed,” I whispered, watching him drive westward on 3^rd Street. I never got his name. Maybe it was for the best. I’d likely never see him ever again. I looked back at my sketchbook, remembering his soft smile.

There was still some good in people.

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Magic is a tricky and very real subject to mull over as you’re writing. As a Christian, it is something that I choose to be very careful with. However, I still use the concept in some of my books, namely one fantasy called Of Words and Wishes.

I personally believe that magic as we know it - spells, witches, and melders of common objects into things of power - is all real. In Ephesians, it says that we wrestle, or fight, against rulers of darkness and spiritual wickedness. That means that I really think that communication with beings of darkness, such as with demons, can be done, since we are told that we will have to fight them. They may come to us on their own, or they may be appointed to be a challenge.

The Merriam-Webster definition of magic is “the use of means believed to have supernatural power over natural forces,” “extraordinary power or influence seemingly from a supernatural source,” and “the art of producing illusions by slight of hand.”1 That version of magic is what we are the most used to seeing in literature, art, and forms of media and entertainment.

While those points are what most people think of when they hear the word, “magic,” they forget to include in their mental idea of it the actual application of it to the world. Magic is real. It is everywhere around us. However, when we see power from a dark supernatural source, we instantly call it magic. When we see power from a holy and righteous source, we completely take it for granted.

What happened to us? Where did the wonder of a chick coming out of an egg or joy at seeing a flower bloom go? Where did our fascination for rainbows in the sky and rocks that skipped over water leave to? Where did our love for a watching a bumblebee defy science and magnets stick together wander off? Miraculous healing, unexplainable opening of doors, overwhelming protection that leaves you walking away unscathed - that’s all extraordinary power from a supernatural (or heavenly!) source.

We just take it for granted now.

In my books that I write, I include magic. However, I make sure the characters know where this power is coming from. It is not their own. It is not from the objects that are being used. It is from another that is higher and more powerful than they. Things happen, unexpected and unexplainable things, but they are attributed to Who they came from.

The magic that my characters accept consists of things like lifting a rod and the mist parts or being able to shout and the storm ceases. Things like healing a disease that no one has been able to touch. Things like trees that can either bless or curse you depending on how you use it. Things that we also know as miracles or blessings.

Now, there is the other form of magic - the dark, twisted side. The side of spells and whispers in the night. The side that gives goosebumps crawling up your skin as you walk by a building, seeing the powers of darkness that sit just on the other side of the window, waiting for hands to use them to delve into things that will possess and destroy.

I do not associate with that version of magic. That is stepping into a territory that I refuse to participate in.

I believe that in that version of magic, you can communicate with things that are definitely better left alone. I believe that you can summon a spirit.2 I believe that you can talk to powers of darkness.3 And, I believe that it shouldn’t be done.

However, how do I deal with magic in books and media that I’m exposed to? Since I believe that it can be a slippery slope to other types of magic, I try to be very careful. I have a boundary that I have given myself, so this is solely based on my own convictions. Yours may be different, and you do what you feel is what God is telling you to do. My convictions may be different from you for many reasons, but I’m not going to cast stones.

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Personally, I’m okay with magic in books to a certain degree. When there is a very clear line between light and darkness, I understand it. For example, in Lord of the Rings, there is a lot of magic. However, there is a very clear and heavy line between good and evil there as well. It is definitely shown, concerning the One Ring, that evil power corrupts and destroys. The White Witch’s magic in the Chronicles of Narnia is shown as purely evil. There is no goodness in it. However, Aslan’s magic and power that he uses is rich with light and healing. There is nothing dark and twisted in it. It cannot corrupt. In 100 Cupboards, Henry is given a power by another Higher Power (through his bloodline). He is able to use it to fight against the powers of darkness, namely the Witch of Endor.

However, when the magic seems unnecessary or bordering on twisted, I chose to walk away. If I cannot find light in it, I stop reading. One thing that has always pushed me away is if they write out the spell in the book. I don’t want that in my head. I don’t want to know. Words have power, and I don’t want to dabble in a power that isn’t mine. While the words might not be anything to you, I associate them with magic, so I steer clear of them. Once again, these are my own convictions. Study and find yours.

I want to bring back the light of innocent and holy magic. In my books, I want to show that magic isn’t something that belongs to evil. As a Christian, magic gets a really bad rap in my community. We have to remember that magic isn’t owned by the Devil. What we now call magic is used by evil for darkness’ sake, but that doesn’t mean that that is all magic is. Magic is also in butterfly’s wings and a child’s first breath. Magic is simply something that we don’t understand. It may be an illusion, or it may be instigated by a power that is greater than us.

Just like anything else, magic has been taken by darkness. A lot of Christians frown at dancing. Dancing of itself isn’t wrong - it’s just how it’s used defines if it’s wrong or not. Waltzing, swinging, and square dancing isn’t going to send you to hell. People need to remember that. Reading books or watching movies that feature magic in them like Narnia and Lord of the Rings isn’t going to give the Devil your soul. When it crosses the line and makes black magic look fun or appealing in any way is when I personally choose to step back.

Think of it this way: music is beautiful. Music is something that we are to use to worship and praise. Music can be used for enjoyment. Music is allowed. However, since people have used music to promote evil and darkness, some Christians have really censored music. When I was younger, I was in an amazing church, but it was one of those that acted as if listening to a song with a fun beat was going to place you right at Hell’s doorstep. Well… I had to disagree. Music is something that can be loved and enjoyed. We just have to follow the convictions that we are given and not dabble in the songs that aren’t the greatest to listen to.

The same goes for magic. Practicing, associating, and supporting magic as the world knows it today is what I personally see as wrong. Seeing the magic and power in things like a bumblebee and the human eye - I love that. Seeing unexplainable power in books that is purely holy and destroys the evil impersonation of power - I’m for that. What we call everyday life is magic. We’ve just altered how we think.

Under technical terms, the parting of the Red Sea and the miracle of the net full of fish qualify under the definition of magic. It is extraordinary power from a supernatural source. Or, as Christians would call it - a miracle from God. That’s the kind of magic that I use in my books. Readers that aren’t familiar with the Christian faith may see the light in that definition. A seed may be planted.

So, there’s my stance. What are your convictions on the matter, if you’re comfortable sharing them? What do you think? I’m not going to throw stones at anyone’s opinions.

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…

Alexander Ward, 19. Lewistown, Montana.

Josiah was still living with me.

He hunkered in my passenger seat as we turned onto Hwy 238, staring at his phone. It bothered me that his eyes were blank and distant, not present like other eyes were. He looked starved for something, and I hated that I knew what he wanted.

In my opinion, the way he obsessed over that screen and that girl of his was no worse than the way anyone acted when they were addicted to a hard drug. He was clearly going through withdrawal, and I hated that I was bringing him back to the glory of Wi-fi connection, but I couldn’t leave him at home alone. Even though he could handle himself – hopefully – mom would flip if I wasn’t watching him.

It wasn’t any wonder why he acted the way he did, being babied all the time.

He was silent as we drove, just staring downward, waiting for the reception to become steady. As more houses came into view, he suddenly made a movement, then furiously worked on something on that now-vibrating screen of his. His face was deep in reverent concentration as notifications lit up his phone. As we entered the industrial part of town, passing the propane, gas, and fertilizer place, he sighed and put the phone down on his lap. I shot him a look, puzzled. “You okay?”

“She didn’t text.”

“Hannah?”

He scowled at me. “Yeah, who else? You think I was texting mom or something dumb like that?”

“Is she waiting for you to text her?” Why was I doing this? Wasn’t she bad for him?

“She can’t be. She always texts first.”

“Maybe she’s really busy.”

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe she’s out with another guy.”

I didn’t know how to comment on that, so I let him plaster his face to the window. I didn’t know a thing about dealing with girls, so for all I knew, this was normal. Yeah, I had girls in high school that hung around, flirting and all, but I never called any a girlfriend or something dramatic like that. I was only nineteen anyway. I had college to think about and my place to tend to. I didn’t need a girl running around.

I pulled into the Albertsons grocery store and parked in the back. Josiah didn’t say anything, but unbuckled and followed me as I did, and we walked together up to the doors. From the outside, there wasn’t much different, but even Josiah’s head shot up when we entered.

Now, I hadn’t gone into town since picking up my brother, as I tended to go only once a month – it helped me to not buy anything out of my budget when I went in less. Less than one month ago, everyone was normal. No one was scared. Not a soul had looked nervous about a germ.

Today, it was different.

Most people looked at us fearfully, as if the virus was going to leap off of our shoulders and tackle them. Faces were wrapped with any type of cover a person could come up with: surgical masks, veils, bandanas, even Halloween costumes were pasted on the majority of people’s faces. It was really weird to see someone with latex gloves and a face shield waiting in line behind Spiderman, but if it made them feel safer, I figured there was nothing wrong with it.

Josiah started to grab a cart, but I shook my head before he touched it. “Try not to touch anything,” I commanded, shoving my hands in my jean pockets. “We can just carry what we get. Between the two of us, it can’t be that hard.”

Josiah silently nodded, gawking at the people. “Is it really that bad?” he asked, eyes wide.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. If everyone’s making this much fuss over it, we might as well be careful.”

My little brother didn’t say a word as I piled some bags of potatoes and apples in his arms, while I cradled two gallons of milk on my side. I went over to the meat section, but most of the sliced deli meats were gone. I looked at the other, larger cuts of meat, feeling like the broke college kid that I was. There was no way I’d be able to afford the amount we’d need for a month if I had to buy steaks, ribs, and roasts.

Next, we went to the bakery section, but that was a lost cause as well. There were only a few loaves of bread left, and I didn’t want to take the last few. It just seemed wrong, like taking the last spoonful of beans at a church potluck. I felt like I would be cheating someone else out of a meal, so I passed it by. Josiah sputtered in protest, but I shook my head. “We’re going to make our own,” I explained. “So long as there’s still flour available.”

There was, but not a lot. I nestled a sack of it between the gallons of milk and my chest, and felt pretty dumb as we headed back to the front to pay. We passed the paper and toiletries section and Josiah stopped short, staring intensely at something. I backed up and looked with him, startled as well.

There were barely any paper products. Paper plates, bowls, napkins, towels, and tissues were scarce, and the toilet paper section was completely empty. Josiah cocked his head in confusion. “Why the heck is all the paper gone?” he exclaimed. “It’s not like people eat it or anything.”

I shrugged the best I could with my arms overflowing. “Maybe supplies are running slower. It’ll probably be stocked again next time.”

He looked disgusted. “Do we have enough to last until then?”

“Maybe. I try to keep a month’s more just in case.” I winced. “If not, we’ll think of something.”

Together, we carried our mountain of supplies up to the registers, standing behind an elderly couple. I recognized them from church and commented a friendly greeting as we stopped.

From behind their masks, they looked nervously at each other, then at the shopper in front of them. The woman spoke, her voice quiet and unsure. “Could you stand a little farther back, son? You’re up a little close.”

I glanced around at the people in line, noticing for the first time the distance between them all. I blushed, embarrassed, and scooted back. “Of course,” I replied. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve not been in town in a bit…”

The old man nodded. “I can tell.”

My embarrassment doubled. Josiah stared over the apples at the tips of his shoes, his face flushing. His soft brown hair fell in his eyes, covering the awkward way they bored into the dusty sneakers he wore. It was nice to see him looking at something other than a screen, but I hated how everyone stared at us. Our food, our closeness, our hands – everything caught their eyes.

When we finally made it to the register, my arms hurt. I could just imagine how Josiah’s felt, as he didn’t do the manual labor that I did that often. He groaned as he laid the food on the belt and rubbed his wrists as I pulled out my debit card. His face fell as I requested for the food not to be put in bags, but I shook my head at him. I was certainly doing that a lot today.

The cashier looked at us through a plexi-glass wall with dull, lifeless eyes. His gloved fingers quickly scanned our items, hesitant to touch anything, scared of that unseen thing that now defined all of us. He stopped as he reached for the milk. “We’re only allowing one per transaction,” he muttered, ready for the conflict that I had no doubt that he’d been hearing all day. He set it on the floor beside him. “Sorry.”

As I started to say that it was okay, Josiah grabbed his wallet and pulled out a credit card. “I’ll pay for it,” he offered. “I’ll do a separate transaction.” He looked up at me, gaining strength from my approving look. “If that’s okay.”

The cashier shrugged. “I guess.” He finished up with me, then let Josiah pay. Yet another thing that he got to do that I didn’t. Mom and Dad would have never let me own a credit card at fifteen years old. However, it was coming in handy, and he seemed mature with it at least.

When we were finally back in the truck, I rested my head against the steering wheel. It was heavy in there, and I was glad to be out of it. Everything was covered in a thick smear of fear, with a hint of panic sticking to it all to top it all off.

As I recollected myself, Josiah spoke up with a quiet voice. “So, what are we doing about bread and meat? Doesn’t bread have more stuff in it than flour?”

I shrugged. “We’re about to find out.” I forced a grin at him. “Who’ve known you’d be making bread?”

He wasn’t amused. “It’s more than flour and water.”

“And how would you know?”

He shot me a hard look, his eyes really reminding me of our dad. It shook me a little, seeing my dad’s dark eyes glaring firmly back at me for the first time in years. “Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you know everything,” he snapped.

I had a lot that I wanted to snap back at him, but I clamped my mouth shut instead. It wouldn’t do any good. He was as stubborn as dad too. But, as we pulled out of the parking lot and took off down the road, I couldn’t help myself. “Then I suppose you can learn to make the bread then.”

His voice was icy cold. “Sure.”

Kylee Stevans, 16. Crescent City, California.

“You know, you could leave and hang out with your friends if you wanted. We could always hire a babysitter for him.”

My jaw fell as she spoke. The book I was holding fell to the floor and I sputtered out an angry response. “No - no one will ever watch him other than me!” My indignant voice rose. “What makes you even think-”

Her bracelets jangled as she picked up her purse from the table. “Calm down,” she flippantly said, her perfect platinum blond hair brushing her shoulders as she turned to face me. “I was simply trying to make a suggestion. When I was your age...”

“Well, I’m not you,” I retorted sharply. “I’m not even related to you. I’m the only person in this whole world that cares about Gabe and here you think that I want to run about with a bunch of girls that want to talk about boys and gossip about celebrities.” I met her eye to eye in one stride, my voice dropping to a dangerous tone. “If you were actually home, maybe you’d realize we’re not like you.”

Her flawless face clothed itself in a mask of fake innocence. Her eyes grew wide, and she clutched her purse tighter, as if she thought I’d snatch it from her pale and manicured paws. “Maybe if you left the house and worked instead of staying home acting like an old spinster, you’d understand why I want you to be like me,” she replied.

Being up this close, I noticed scarlet lipstick on her teeth. Should I have told her? Probably. Would I? No. It’d give the ladies at the office something to laugh about. “Go to your little office job,” I spat instead, “and look all dolled up for Mr. Harnon. I can stay home if I want.”

With a little huff, she backed away from me. Her heels tapped out a defeated march as she whisked herself out. I sighed and leaned against the wall as her convertible pulled out of the drive and drove off, sending her away to her fantasy land of money and men.

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I leaned against the wall, then slid down it, loving the steadiness of the floor. My eyes closed, loving the quiet of the house now. She was gone. I hated her presence – the way her rings snatched the sunlight, the tap of her heels like a bb-gun, and the toxic and overwhelming stench of her perfume. She was intense, and I wanted to take my nails and claw out her immaculate blond waves.

A little hand rested on mine, and I looked into the concerned eyes of pure innocence. His lip quivered, and I knew he wanted to speak, but didn’t have the words for what he wanted to express. I drew him close to me, and he snuggled up against my side.

She had shaken him. She just grabbed his little, thin shoulders and shook him up real good and made him cry. She kept telling him to speak to her. She knew. She knew. She knew he wouldn’t be able to respond like his age. But she grabbed him anyway. She wanted to shake the broken out of him and beat the innocence and tear his young mind apart, piecing it into something she could have pride in. If only she could see the little boy clutching my arm now.

I had screamed at her, tearing into her frantically, trying to pry my brother out of her porcelain hands. She had tried to sugar me up with her dumb and silky voice. The syrupy words slowly rolled off the walls, landing in drops around me.

“You don’t have to pretend you love him. You can be free.”

And he heard. He heard that demon of a woman say those things and ran. Oh, how I screamed at her. Tiny and blond me, screaming like a banshee at her, grabbing a book, threatening to beat her brains out onto the floor for what she said. But she had no fear. She just wanted me to go out with other girls like her, ready to be models for whatever men wanted and bring the money for whatever toy suited their fancy.

I needed more of a life than that. I was better than a toy for some guy to gawk at in an office. I wasn’t going to leave my career behind for her pride and selfish mind. My career was simpler and more noble. I had Gabe. He needed me. What more could I ask for?

I kissed the feathery hair on the top of his head and whispered, “Do you want to go to the beach?” in his ear. His grin was enough for me.

I loaded him up in the backseat of my little car, a dark blue Impala, and took off down the road, trying to forget the shadows at home. I cranked up Gabe’s playlist on my phone, letting the speakers roar old Disney themes and ballads from when my parents were little. After we’d let it go, saw the light, and gone the distance, I pulled into Tolowa Dunes. It was a simple place, mostly covered in dirt and stones, but Gabe found it to be the coolest beach on earth.

I sat on the hood of my car as he ran about. There was no one else there to bother us. It was just us and the wind and water. The spray from the waves misted his hair, making the sunlight sparkle off of it. He threw stone after stone into the shimmering water, shrieking in delight as they broke the barrier between air and sea, sending droplets into the space over the ocean.

At one point, he ran up to me, the wind blowing his hair back. He grabbed my hand, placing a sun-warmed stone in my palm with pride. “Stars,” he said, breathless with wonder. “I found star.”

I looked in awe at the object he gave me. It was a little, gray rock, with a fossil of some sort with a sand-dollar looking thing in it. The intricate detail and depth was stunning, so much so that I almost questioned if it was even real. “You certainly did find a star,” I replied, stroking my thumb over it. “You did so good, Gabe.”

He beamed with pride. It was so easy to make him happy. He put his hand over mine, curling my fingers over the stone. “Keep,” he commanded. “You have star now.”

“Awww! Thanks, buddy!” I wrapped him in a hug, loving the tiny squeeze of his thin arms around my waist. I clutched the fossil tight. “I’ll never let this go. I promise.”

How could anyone hate him? He was perfect.

Wilder Ashton, 17. Outside of Silverton, Colorado.

I was singing along to the old songs on the radio again. One of my favorites, Springsteen by Eric Church, came through my earbuds as I walked. It gave me an eerie feeling, like I was missing a day gone by. The only way I could describe it was if I slept in for a whole day and missed everything that I loved, and there would be a rock in the pit of my stomach, holding down the ache that rose. Nostalgia. I loved it.

“When I think about you

I think about seventeen.

I think about my old Jeep.

I think about the stars in the sky.

Funny how a melody sounds like a memory

Like a soundtrack to a July Saturday night.”

How I wanted those days. I wanted that kind of life. I wanted to feel the wind in my hair, see the dirt billowing up behind my truck, and race down the road with vigor and freedom. I craved it. I longed for it with every ounce of youth and boyhood in me.

But how can you miss something you’ve never had?

I plopped myself down on the mountain edge. I was out of breath from my hike, but this view was worth it. The mountains stretched as far as I could see, each one turning more and more blue as the sky wrapped around them. The snow that was still dusting the tips sparkled in the mid-May sunshine.

My fingers curled around a little stone beside me, and I rubbed it, thinking. My 18^th birthday was coming up, and I wanted to do something – anything – that was different and exciting, but unfortunately, this little, irritating germ decided to show up. Out of all times, it had to be right now, at the pinnacle of my life, at the time when I was supposed to be wild and carefree; here it kicked my feet out from under me and crippled my youth.

The amount of persuasion that it took to get my grandparents to allow me to drive to Sultan Mountain and hike completely alone to the top was hilarious. Grandma was so scared that the virus would leap out from behind a tree or something and infect me, then I’d bring it home, then they’d get it, and that would be the end of the world as anyone knew it. My insistence on how that was an extremely unlikely scenario was shot down repeatedly, but Grandpa of all people let me go. Who catches a virus on the top of a mountain anyway?

As I thought this, another hiker mounted the top with me, moving to the other side of my perch, away from me. Instinctively, I stepped back as I noticed him, but something seemed off. He wrapped a coat tightly around his shivering body, shuffling his feet as if he was trying to hide some shameful pain. He raised his head and met my eyes, and I stepped back farther as I saw his skin.

Dots. All over his skin were millions of pinpricks, bright red and inflamed. His eyes were bright and shimmery with a fever, tinged in scarlet. His lips moved as he tried to speak, but any word he tried to whisper was silent.

My head was light with astonishment and wonder. There was a freakish attraction that I had to the misery that he had, and I couldn’t tear my eyes from his affliction. “Do you need help?” I asked.

He shook his head. His lemon hair fell in his eyes, covering some of the marks. “No,” he croaked, desperately forcing out the word. “I just – I just, just wanted to see the mountains before...”

The tragedy of the moment dawned on me. The man stared out over the horizon, trying to memorize every rise and ridge that touched the sky. He couldn’t have been that much more older than me – maybe 24 or 25. And here he was, trying to see what he could before it all stopped. Before he ended. Before his memory faded into a name scribbled on a headstone.

I swallowed an odd, unnamable feeling. “They don’t have a cure yet?”

He shook his head. “That’s what, what they told me. They offered to keep me com-com-comfortable until, well, until it was all over.” He winced. “I wanted to live instead.”

“Where are you from?”

“Florida.” He tried his best to grin, and my heart dropped at the graying of his teeth. He really was dying. “I was diagnosed three days ago. My, my – my girlfriend doesn’t even know yet. I did – didn’t want her trying to see me.” A broken, sorrowful chuckle tried to escape from him. “Why am I even telling you all this? You’re a total stranger.”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” he replied. He stuck out a hand, covered in pinpricks. “Max Fletcher.”

I took another step back. “Wilder Ashton.”

His eyes widened as he realized his mistake. “I-I-I’m sorry. Force of habit, I guess.”

“It’s okay. I don’t blame you.”

He looked truly grateful. “Thank you,” he breathed. “You wouldn’t believe the-the-the uh, hostility I saw as I came here.”

“No, I can believe it,” I assured him. “No offense, but you aren’t looking the greatest.”

An actual laugh came from him. It was a wheezing, strangled sound, but he laughed. “I don’t feel the greatest,” he admitted. “My feet burn with every step I take. My throat is tight – so tight. This fever is making all the colors to bright and sharp. I-I-I wish I could see right again.” A warm tear betrayed his pain. “I don’t remember what everything looked like. It’s all shiny.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to whisper an “I’m sorry,” but it seemed too feeble compared to his pain. What do you tell someone that’s dying? You can’t say it’s all right because in that moment, nothing is alright. Nothing is fine. Everything is broken and numb and heartless and bitter and nothing in the world will mend that tearing grief of unlived years from you. So, I stayed silent.

When we finally parted ways on the top of that mountain, I wondered how his story would end. Did his girlfriend ever know until the end? How hard was it there, at the last breath, when he was reliving his life? Did he even make it back to Florida?

He haunted me.

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I was talking to some friends of mine about my book earlier this week, and I proposed an idea to them. What if I made a post full of random facts of my characters from The Silent Summer? What if I just piled up things like their birthdays, favorite season, song, color, and things, and who I’d like to play them if this ever became a movie? I mean, for some of the characters, we’d need to go back a few years, but…..

So…. I came and asked you all.

And you were very supportive of the idea.

So here you go!

Alexander Ward:

In a movie: Chris Hemsworth when he was young.

Birthday: August 2nd, 2025

Full Name: Alexander (Alex) James Ward Jr.

Favorites -

• Color: Blue

• Season: Autumn

• Song: Til You Can’t by Cody Johnson

• Artist/band: Cody Johnson or High Valley

• Movie: Twister (1996) and Twisters (2024)

• Cat or Dog: He likes dogs, but only older, calmer ones.

• Food: Does coffee count as a food?

• Childhood game: AirSoft battles

• Hobby: Playing guitar

• Book: Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand or Jungle Pilot by Russell T. Hitt

Goal in Life: To have his own ranch one day or join the Air Force. He’s waiting to see how Josiah ends up. He also wants a family of his own.

Top Secret: Is scared that he’s going to lose Josiah, especially since Josiah looks a lot like their father. Doesn’t feel capable enough to father him.

Josiah Ward:

In a movie: Josh Harnett in the 90’s

Birthday: July 23rd, 2029

Full Name: Josiah Isaac Ward

Favorites -

• Color: Red

• Season: Summer

• Song: The Final Countdown by Europe, Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins, and We Didn’t Start the Fire by Billy Joel

• Artist/band: Kenny Loggins, Journey, and Aerosmith

• Movie: The Top Gun movies.

• Cat or Dog: Not really either.

• Food: Mac n’ Cheese

• Childhood game: Cowboys and Indians (he was always a cowboy)

• Hobby: Gaming

• Book: Absolutely HATES reading and will avoid it at all costs.

Goal in Life: He wants to be in a rodeo. After that, he wants to move to Texas.

Top Secret: He idolized Alex for years until Alex left for college. Now, he’s torn between wanting to hate him or be him.

Callie Evans:

In a movie: Sadie Sink

Birthday: November 13th, 2029

Full Name: Caledonia (Callie) Elizabeth Evans

Favorites -

• Color: Sky blue

• Season: Summer

• Song: Anything from the How To Train Your Dragon soundtrack, especially Forbidden Friendship

• Artist/band: Phillip Phillips or OneRepublic

• Movie: The Princess Diaries (2001) and 10 Things that I Hate About You (1999) and The Greatest Showman (2017)

• Cat or Dog: She can’t decide. She loves both.

• Food: Chicken n’ Waffles

• Childhood game: Racing. Also water balloon wars.

• Hobby: Listening, playing, writing, and just doing anything with music

• Book: Not much of a big reader, but she did enjoy The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer.

Goal in Life: To go to Nashville and make it big in the music industry.

Top Secret: Has crashed every single one of Nate’s dates. She doesn’t want him to leave home for a love-sick girl.

Nathaniel Maher:

In a movie: Andrew Garfield

Birthday: February 25th, 2028

Full Name: Nathaniel Michael Maher

Favorites -

• Color: A deep, dark forest green

• Season: Autumn

• Song: Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash

• Artist/band: Johnny Cash

• Movie: Gods and Generals (2003)

• Cat or Dog: Always will be dogs, especially beagles.

• Food: Steak. A large, tender, juicy steak.

• Childhood game: He didn’t really play with other children, but he loved playing war with himself and acting out battles with toy soldiers.

• Hobby: Woodworking

• Book: The Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government by Jefferson Davis

Goal in Life: To become a history professor. Maybe get married. It depends on if he can find a girl that loves history.

Top Secret: Is pro-Confederate, but you can’t say that in 2045.

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Daniel Weston:

In a movie: Matt Dillon in the early 80’s.

Birthday: October 19th, 2026

Full Name: Daniel Lewis Weston

Favorites -

• Color: Will tell everyone that it’s dark blue, but it’s really yellow.

• Season: Summer

• Song: Birmingham by Zach Bryan

• Artist/band: Zach Bryan, Morgan Wallen, or Bailey Zimmerman

• Movie: Any war movie.

• Cat or Dog: Dogs all the way. But large dogs. And he has a soft spot for fluffy ones.

• Food: Burgers and fries

• Childhood game: Cops and Robbers and Mafia.

• Hobby: Riding bulls at his friend Mason’s grandfather’s house.

• Book: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. He read it and cried.

Goal in Life: To never get hooked on drugs. Anything else can happen, but as long as he never gets addicted, he’s fine.

Top Secret: His first celebrity crush was Taylor Swift in the early 2000’s. He doesn’t talk about it much.

Verity Brennan:

In a movie: Emma Watson

Birthday: November 4th, 2028

Full Name: Verity Makayla Brennan

Favorites -

• Color: Lavender

• Season: Spring

• Song: Save You a Seat by Alex Warren or Just a Kiss by Lady A

• Artist/band: Alex Warren or Taylor Swift (her older music)

• Movie: Pride and Prejudice (2005)

• Cat or Dog: Cats, but she has a soft spot for German shepherds.

• Food: Anything fried.

• Childhood game: Any card game. She really didn’t like the physical games.

• Hobby: Writing poetry

• Book: The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

Goal in Life: To get a little house up in the Sanbois mountains and hide out there forever where no one and nothing can ever find her and Charity. There, she’ll find peace.

Top Secret: She prefers talking to boys more than girls because her mind is calmer around them. And they’re more interesting to talk to compared to girls.

Kylee Stevans:

In a movie: Makenna Grace

Birthday: July 30th, 2028

Full Name: Kylee Evalyn Stevans

Favorites -

• Color: Teal

• Season: Spring

• Song: The Scientist by Coldplay

• Artist/band: Coldplay or Lewis Capaldi

• Movie: The Princess Bride (1987)

• Cat or Dog: Cats all the way. Dogs jump too much.

• Food: Chocolate.

• Childhood game: Mafia

• Hobby: Target shooting

• Book: The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins.

Goal in Life: She wants to see the world and show Gabe everything that she’s read about. She knows he’d love seeing it all but doesn’t want to have him get hurt out there in the world.

Top Secret: Wants kids one day, but is scared that she’ll end up like her mom or stepmom.

Hadley Briar:

In a movie: Raffey Cassidy

Birthday: September 23rd, 2030

Full Name: Hadley Cassandra Briar

Favorites -

• Color: A sunset orange

• Season: Spring (it was her mother’s favorite)

• Song: I Can Only Imagine by MercyMe or Before You Go by Lewis Capaldi

• Artist/band: MercyMe or The Piano Guys

• Movie: Secondhand Lions (2003)

• Cat or Dog: She likes dogs because they’re more friendly.

• Food: Any kind of soup. With biscuits.

• Childhood game: Hide n’ Seek

• Hobby: Journaling the new plants she finds

• Book: Little Women (her favorite character is Beth)

Goal in Life: She wants to become a therapist for children like her. She wants to help people because she wasn’t helped until it went too far.

Top Secret: Learned herbalism to know where to source local poisons. No one is going to hurt someone she loves again.

Wilder Ashton:

In a movie: C. Thomas Howell in the mid-80’s

Birthday: June 9th, 2027

Full Name: Wilder Ford Ashton

Favorites -

• Color: Red

• Season: Both winter and summer

• Song: Forever Ain’t Long Enough by Max McNown

• Artist/band: Max McNown

• Movie: The Great Escape (1963) He also loves The A-Team (1980s)

• Cat or Dog: Large dogs. He always wanted a St. Bernard

• Food: Pizza

• Childhood game: Sardines or Mafia

• Hobby: Anything involving mechanics

• Book: Ford 1980 Car Shop Manual

Goal in Life: Just wants to settle down not far from Silverton and have his own family.

Top Secret: Is scared of the ghosts in PacMan. Like, he literally squeaks in fear when he’s playing.

…

Did anything about them surprise you? Are you similar to anyone? Let me know what you think or if you have any questions!

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Two weeks later…

“The CDC strongly advises everyone to stay home to diminish the spread of this virus. While it is unknown as to how it spreads, the Department of Health and Human Services believes that any germs are being spread through physical contact, oral discharge, and arial transmission, such as sneezing or coughing.

“Officials are discussing the possibility of placing New York City under lockdown, as well as Boston. Due to the rapid spread, unfortunately resulting in over a thousand deaths at this moment in the state of New York alone, the lockdown is likely to be enforced within the week. Positive tests for this virus have been recorded in all states except Indiana, Nevada, North Dakota, and Wisconsin.

“Please stay indoors and avoid all contact with people for your safety. Avoid crowded and public spaces, such as businesses, airports, and tourist areas…”

Nathaniel Maher, 17. Sharpsburg, North Carolina.

“You’re going to your cousin’s.”

My head shot up, shocked. “I’m going where?”

My mom stared down at me. I was covered in dirt, standing waist deep in a pit. I stared up at her, leaning against my shovel. I had been trying to dig a well – just for the sake of it – and now I was worried. “Am I getting everything that dirty?”

“Oh no,” she assured me, kneeling down at the edge of my hole, meeting me eye to eye. “I’m just nervous. The North Carolina cases have risen to twelve.”

I stopped and stared at her harder. “Mom, it’s just twelve.”

“That’s twelve people, Nathaniel, that are dead. It only took a few days for New York to go from 12 deaths to debate of lockdown.”

“But that’s New York,” I reasoned. “They’re all stacked on top of each other there.”

“I’ve already spoken to your aunt,” she insisted, standing and brushing the dirt from her knees. “You’re going to be heading their way tomorrow. Your father and I will send money for gas.”

My jaw fell. I’d never – never – been allowed to drive to another state alone before, much less all the way to Nebraska. I suddenly realized I was lightheaded, and I grasped the grass at the edge of the hole I was in. “Does Dad even know about this?”

“I called him at work. He’s going to miss saying good-bye, but he wants you safe too.” At my raised eyebrow, she clarified. “Well, he really just wants you to hang out with your cousins. He doesn’t think it’ll be that serious.”

“How long do you want me gone?”

“At least for the summer.” She forced a smile. “Just think, even if nothing happens, then you’ll just spend the summer there.”

I looked around, observing my well, forts, sod house, tree house – all the things I built and hung out in. A deep, dark thought stood before me, grinning. ‘What if,’ it said, ‘you don’t get to come back?’

I steeled myself. I’d be back. I promised myself that I’d return. I forced a smile as well and took a breath. “I suppose I should pack then?”

She looked relieved, glad that I wasn’t fighting or trying to stay. I didn’t want to leave, but I also didn’t want to stay and hurt her feelings. She was a good mom, and if this is what she wanted, I’d do it. “Yes, thank you,” she breathed. “I’ll pack some food for the road for you. I expect it’ll take about three days.”

I hauled myself out of the hole, picking the dirt out from underneath my fingernails as I walked up to my house. Where to start, I thought. Of course I needed clothes, hygiene supplies, books… Maybe not the books. My heart hurt. Not the books? Reality shook my mind, but emotion shook it back. Maybe just a couple.

I pulled my suitcase out from my closet and stared blankly at it. Numbly, I threw some pants in there, then a shirt or two. I added a button-up shirt for church. Did Carson’s family even go to church? I didn’t know. I supposed I’d need some pajamas so I tossed a set in. The poor pile of clothes sagged in a heap, crumpled like my mind. Nothing in this room wanted to leave or believe what was happening.

My mom came in with my dad’s suitcase and sighed when she saw my efforts. Saying nothing, she removed everything, folding it in the way a mother does; gently and careful. She removed every piece of clothing that I wore and loved the most and added it, lips quivering as she tried to hide her worry.

I watched her, observing the way her mouse-y brown hair had the slightest curl on her neck, the way her long fingers grasped the cloth, the soft lines in her face that betrayed her age, and the downward turning of her eyes. Her slim, willowy figure bent under the thoughts of the future without me there, and I could barely stand to be in the room.

I didn’t know whether to believe it all or not. Dad wasn’t worried, but Mom was scared. Mom was never scared. Even when a hurricane was coming one year and everyone was supposed to evacuate, she wasn’t scared. She told me it was an adventure, and at eight years old, I believed her. Tell me it’s an adventure now, I thought. Calm me. Tell me it’s alright.

But she was silent.

Callie Evans, 15. Clarksville, Tennessee.

“Callie, I don’t want you going tonight.”

My jaw dropped as I stared at my mom. “But why?” I questioned, shocked as I heard her. My hands froze, clutching the plate I was washing. “Did I do something wrong?”

She gave me one of those looks where you know she’s mad but she’s trying really hard not to show it, but the irritation is just leaking out of her so much that you can’t ignore it. “You did nothing. I just don’t want you catching anything at the party.”

“What?” I snorted. “Like the virus? I think I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, but you’re young,” she snapped. “Nothing hurts you.” The sarcastic tone she used rubbed me wrong. “Just listen to me and do what I tell you. I don’t want you going because you might catch this thing.”

Knowing what was good for me, I kept my mouth shut, but the rebel in me simmered. I’d been stuck at home for the past five days at the command of my mom, who was a germaphobe. I couldn’t spend one more day without seeing someone.

So, I snuck out that night.

Nathan wasn’t home, and mom and dad were in the den watching TV. No one was watching me. No one was making sure I was being good and staying in my room scrolling on my phone and being the perfect, obedient daughter that they wanted.

I could do whatever I wanted.

Tucking a swimsuit in a bag for the party, I slipped outside, climbed on my bike, and took off down our street. I biked to the end, then turned left on Bevard Road. I was barely on it a minute when I turned into Lainey’s driveway. So there, mom. I made it here alone.

Lainey met me at the door, her bright blonde hair highlighted with pink. I loved her hair. She was constantly dying it all sorts of colors. Mine, on the other hand, was always wild, curly, and summery red. And mom didn’t like the thought of me dying it – or even straightening the tangled mass.

Lainey grinned so big when she saw me. “Hey girl!” she exclaimed. “I thought you weren’t going to make it!”

“I thought so too,” I admitted, looking in awe at all the teens milling around, laughing and having a good time. Someone had cranked some music up really loud. Just the way I liked it. My favorite country songs were blaring, and I was so glad that I didn’t stay home.

“Did you bring your suit?” Lainey asked, ushering me in, her yellow sundress swishing about. She was like sunshine and honey – the epitome of summer. “A lot of kids are already in the pool.”

I held my bag up. “Of course I did. I wouldn’t forget it.”

Another girl, Raelynn, came up to us, a bright red dixie cup in her hand. “Callie!” she smiled. “What took you so long? We’ve been here for hours!”

“Oh,” I replied, “I just had to wait and sneak out. Mom wasn’t going to let me go with the virus and all.”

Raelynn threw back her head and laughed. “Mothers.” She rolled her eyes. “They never want us to do anything.” She raised her voice, speaking in a mocking, high-pitched tone. “Oh Callie! You’ll catch your death of PINS if you ever so much as step outside. I swear, you act like you want to die from it, child!”

Her antics got the three of us bending over laughing when she finished. Within a few minutes, I was changed into my swimsuit and was diving into the pool in the backyard. Boys and girls, all around my age, wandered about, eating, laughing, and playing around with each other.

Lainey’s home was the fun house in the neighborhood. Her parents didn’t care what she did, or who came over, or even how the people stayed. Often, kids would stay until morning, running about with the essence of youth. Her parents had told my mom once that they would rather have every kid there at their house instead of anywhere else. Might as well get wild here than get in trouble somewhere else.

I don’t know how long I was there, but the moon was high in the sky. One of the older boys brought out a cooler, and to my surprise, started handing out beer. I hung back, now awkwardly watching everyone. I didn’t like the idea of being drunk, even though I’d never tried it.

Raelynn saw me up against the wooden fence and sauntered over to me. “Come on girl! Do you want some too?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” She grabbed my hand and pulled me closer to everyone. “Come try some!”

I awkwardly stood there as she led me to an older boy by the cooler. He grinned when he saw me. “You want one?” he offered, holding a can out. “Or are you chicken?”

“Shut up!” Raelynn laughed, taking the beer from him. “Course she wants one, right Callie?”

I forced myself to nod. “Yeah.” I took the can from her hand, popping the top open. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to drink. That wasn’t who I was. Nate would hate it if he caught me. I stared at the liquid in there. Everyone was watching me. I had to do this. Imagine what they’d think if I didn’t. I gave Raelynn a death stare as I tipped my head back, taking a large drink.

The sudden burning feeling almost made me spit it out, but I hurriedly swallowed it. Now, the drink made my entire throat tingle. Oh, how I regretted this. Then, a slightly sweet taste left a hint in my mouth, and I raised an eyebrow in surprise. I didn’t think beer could be sweet.

“Well,” the older boy asked, “what do you think?”

I shot him a look. “It’s okay.”

“If you like it, you can have another.”

“I’ll see.” I really didn’t want to finish the one I had, regardless of the likable flavor. My face flushed with shame as I walked away. I was embarrassed for myself. I stared at the can I held. Oh well, I should probably finish it and get this over with. I wouldn’t want anyone catching me with it in my hands.

I forced myself to finish it, feeling sick at the end. I knew for sure that I wasn’t going back for a second. I shouldn’t have come. Everyone was laughing too loud and getting rowdy. There was too much going on. My head hurt.

I wanted to leave.

I stumbled inside, nausea tearing up my gut. My eyes burned from the smoke in the living room. How could so many people smoke at once? How could they stand it? The smell did nothing to help my churning stomach, and I locked myself in the bathroom.

With tired hands, I peeled off my swimsuit and changed back into my t-shirt and shorts. I stared at myself in the mirror. My green eyes were bloodshot, and my freckled face was deathly pale. I pushed my red curls out of my face and tried not to cry. I hated myself. Why couldn’t I just say no?

To my surprise, I met another red-headed boy on the front porch as I was leaving. He grabbed my arm in anger as I registered who he was. “Callie,” he scolded, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! What were you thinking?”

I blankly stared at him, glad that I didn’t have the beer anymore. I stared to say, “Hey Nate,” but instead I promptly threw up.

His jaw dropped as he smelled the drink on my breath. “What did you do?”

“I just had one,” I attempted to explain, as my stomach heaved in displeasure. “I didn’t want to-“

“But you still did it!” He hurriedly shoved me towards his truck, helping me in, and throwing my bike in the back. He climbed in the driver’s seat and rested his head against the steering wheel. “Why Callie? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I cried, my head pounding. “I don’t know, Nate.” I wiped my face with my shirt. “Does mom and dad know that I’m gone?”

“No, they don’t. I got home and went up to your room to say good night, and I found that you weren’t there.” He threw the truck in drive and took off back home. “I started driving up and down the streets, trying to find you. You know you shouldn’t be out and hanging around people. What if you caught the virus?”

“And what if I didn’t?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t just end there. You ran off and drank. Even if there was no virus, you’d still be in trouble.” The streetlights shone patterns on his face as he neared our house. “Callie, not everything in life is fun. Sometimes you have to grow up and tell people that you can’t do some things.”

“I wanted to go though.” My voice was as small as I felt.

“What if something had happened? What if you’d been pressured into another? What if you ended up completely drunk?” He was silent as he parked, contemplating what all could have been.

“Are you going to tell them?”

“No. Not this time.” He gave me one hard look. “I’ll hide it this time. If you dare to do it again,” he warned, “I won’t hesitate to give you what you deserve. If you don’t learn easy, I’m going to give you hard.”

I looked down at my feet, ashamed. He had every right to be angry.

Hadley Briar, 14. Outside of Alliance, Nebraska.

I spat out a mouthful of hair as the wind whipped it in my face. My dark curls flew about me as I turned my bike into her driveway. The wind was certainly fierce today. I loved it though. It felt like spring finally. The wildflowers were taking over the ditches, green was showing in the fields, and school was officially out. I could now spend the entire day doing what I loved: staying with Mrs. Melissa.

She was like another grandmother to me, I thought, stopping my bike and kicking the stand down. Mrs. Melissa was probably the oldest person I knew, but she and I were the closest of friends. I’d been caring for her since I was twelve, as that was when she could no longer walk. Grandma said that she had something going on with her joints or something, but for the sole sake of manners, I didn’t pry, though I really wanted to.

I grabbed the door key out from under a flowerpot and came inside, calling out her name cheerfully. The soft hum of her electric wheelchair came to me, followed by her answering call. “Oh Hadley, girl,” she smiled. “How’s your morning?”

“Pretty good,” I replied, attempting to tame my wild mane as I came to her side.

Her gnarled fingers rose and touched mine as they caught in a snare in the windy mess. I really should bother to braid it all, I knew. I just liked my curls falling around my shoulders and reflecting the sunlight, bringing out the slight reddish hint in the darkness. “Bring me a brush,” Mrs. Melissa commanded, gently. “Let me get that out.”

This is why I loved her. She was gentle. She was kind. No one else had the time to be soft and comforting. Grandpa was always working out in the fields and Grandma would be in town, or making something, or just staying busy in general. Mrs. Melissa would stop – I mean, she couldn’t do much else – and be with me. She’d listen, comment, and understand.

I sat down before her, and tenderly, her motherly hands started working on the tangle. The cold tingle that ran up my spine when my hair was touched gave me a delightful shiver. I closed my eyes, at peace.

As she worked, she spoke. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” She did love to talk. Having no one there to talk to, she loved my company.

“The sickness – the virus. What would you recommend?”

“Could you define, ‘recommend,’ please?”

“How would you recommend treating it?”

She gave a slight laugh. “Oh dear, I don’t even know the symptoms.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and did a quick search. I didn’t remember all the symptoms. There were too many, and they kept adding more every day as the virus mutated. To top it off, not everyone agreed on if some symptoms were attributable to the virus, or if it was just a really bad flu. It certainly made everything difficult to diagnose.

Seeing all of them laid out neatly across the pages made my blood run cold. I hated it. I hated it all. This is why I didn’t look this up.

My mouth was dry as I read them aloud for her. “It starts with a sore throat and pinprick marks on the hands. Then, the pinpricks spread as the fever starts. Every joint aches and burns. The rash covers every inch of your skin. And they itch. Oh, and burn. Lovely.” I forced a laugh, trying to make light of it, but my heart wasn’t in it. “Eventually,” I continued, “the throat starts to swell, as well as the nasal passages. At the end, everything swells shut.” I nervously swallowed. “There are no known survivors.”

We were very quiet for a while. The prospect of the whole thing was overwhelming. A dozen ‘what ifs’ hung around us, spinning, spiraling in the nightmares that sat in the sunlight. There was too much to take in.

They didn’t say that on the news – about no survivors. All they said was that people were working on medicine for it. Doctors were testing and getting answers and doing whatever they did in those laboratories, and yet they said on the official CDC website that there were no survivors. No one. Nothing.

Where were the medications promised? When would they acknowledge that this was something unnatural? When would they come out and say that they were just as lost and overwhelmed as us and they just wanted it end? We all wanted it to end. It’d been a week. So much death in three weeks. Maybe it was a joke. One evil, twisted, sick joke.

“Hadley,” Mrs. Melissa spoke, stroking my hair with a gentle hand, “I need you to listen to me. You can’t heal something like this. Herbs are not going to help with this one. You can treat the symptoms one by one, maybe, to give you some time, but if there’s been no recorded survivors yet...” Her voice trailed off, but her knowing eyes finished her sentence.

She didn’t have hope.

She didn’t think this would end well, and that was the scariest thing I’d ever heard. She always had hope. With trembling fingers, I traced the cross on my necklace. Oh God, make it stop. Ease my heart.

“Here’s what you need to do,” she said, taking my chin and making me look in her honey-colored eyes. “You need to stay away from anyone and anything. Don’t socialize. Don’t interact. But most importantly, don’t lose yourself. What’s the worst that could happen right now?”

I knew what she thought I was going to say. Yes, if I caught it, it’d be bad. However, that wasn’t the worst. The worst would be if she got it, or Grandpa and Grandma. I could die. I could handle that. I couldn’t handle losing them. Not them. Anyone but them. “The worst is if we get sick,” I finally whispered, numb.

“And if we do?”

“I lose you.”

“Oh, Hadley girl.” She pulled me close to her chest, letting me rest my head against her. “You won’t lose me. You’ll never lose me. We may be parted for a bit, but you won’t lose me.”

I wrapped my arms around her, holding on as my heart cracked and wept inside myself. No tears ever fell on my skin. They had twice before, when I busted my knee on the playground when I was six, and when my they closed the casket of my mom and I couldn’t see her face anymore. They said she looked happy, but I couldn’t see it. All I saw were the bruises that they covered up with makeup and the closed eyes that would never sparkle again with a sunset.

I didn’t have the strength to lose anymore. I was tired. I wanted to stop in the moment and spend the rest of time being held by my only friend. I wanted to stop thinking – to stop being strong.

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Something I’ve always struggled with as a writer was writing boys. As a girl, I don’t understand the mind of a male, especially adults. They think differently from me and act differently and walk and talk and live and breathe in a completely different manner than I do.

And I find that fascinating.

So, I wanted to create male characters that were actually male. I didn’t want to make this dreamer that ran about thinking flowy, happy thoughts like a thirteen-year-old girl would. I knew I needed to make boys that got dirty, did what they shouldn’t, and had to be burned to learn a lesson. They had to be reckless, creative, strong, enduring, thoughtful in the only way a boy could. They couldn’t do it as I would do it. They had to be different.

One thing that I started doing was watching. Thankfully, I have brothers, so they were my first subjects. I stalked their actions like a lion on the savannah - just trying not to be weird about it. Observation was key to learning the art of the male.

By watching them in their natural habitat (a.k.a. the shop, the barn, a tree, the couch, you name it), I slowly got to see how these creatures reacted to certain things. It was quite fascinating. However, they soon became a little predictable, as brothers can be. I mean, when you’ve lived with them for your entire life, you start to pick up on things. It certainly helped that I was the only girl for several years, and even after my first sister was born, I ran with the boys for years afterward until she was old enough to really hang out with.

However, I needed more to observe.

I started studying male characters in books, as that was the only way I could get a glimpse of how they thought. It’s really hard to get into your brother’s, cousin’s, or friend’s head to read their thoughts, but when you’re reading inside a character’s mind, you have their whole world opened up to you. They are honest - almost brutally. They are imaginative. They come up with solutions that I’d never think of in a hundred, but somehow, somehow, somehow it works.

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So, how do you write someone you’ll never be?

For girls writing about boys, and boys writing about girls, it takes time. You have to observe and study. Real people are the best to study because they are unpredictable. You can see them do anything. You get to watch their face change as a glass of milk gets spilled. You see their eyes light up as you walk in the room. You get to walk beside them, matching their stride and learning how they carry their hands when they’re nervous. You get to really see the physical side of your opposite.

But the mental and emotional side. Those are harder.

The easiest way to learn is through books. You can pick up more of the mental side there. Get into your favorite character’s heads and see how they think. Poke around. Investigate. Be curious. Put yourself in their shoes and walk around for a day, thinking as they would.

Personally, the number one way that I have found for creating someone that you’re not is by showing your character to someone similar to them and simply asking for advice. For example, if I’m creating a male mechanic that’s young and loves speed and is full of life, then I’m going to go to someone I personally know, set the scenes that I’m struggling with before them, and just ask for constructive criticism. Ask what they would do in that scene. How would they react? What would they say?

One thing to remember when asking someone for advice is who you ask. If you are trying to write a dreamer that watches every sunrise with a mug of tea in her hands, then don’t ask the wild one that lives for whatever moment they’re in and doesn’t even know two different types of tea how your character should act. Choose someone that’s close to your character in personality. That will really help with accuracy.

If you were struggling to create those characters, hopefully this helped you get started. For those who write, who’s your favorite to write: boys or girls? And, personality wise, are they similar to you at all?

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What are you all thinking about this so far? Do you have a favorite character yet? I really hope you’re enjoying this just as much or more than I am!

Without further ado, here’s part 3!

…

Kylee Stevans, 16. Crescent City, California.

The grease in the skillet sizzled and popped as I shuffled Gabe’s egg around. He sat on the ground by my feet, his thin blond hair falling in his face. I needed to tell mom to schedule a haircut for him, I told myself. She wouldn’t notice if I didn’t say anything.

“Ky-Ky.”

“Yes?”

“Now.”

I sighed. “It’s not done yet. If you eat it now, it’ll be slimy.”

“Now.”

He understood me. He really did, despite what everyone else said. Despite our parents, the doctors, and whoever else that liked to give their unneeded opinion, Gabe heard me. He listened. He knew what was going on. He had a mind of an eight-year-old, but he couldn’t control himself. That’s why he acted five years younger.

He was trapped.

“Ky-ky, now!” He slapped my bare feet in frustration. Pointing to his mouth, then too the skillet, he tried to communicate the best he could.

“I hear you. You are hungry.” Mom hated when I validated him, but it really helped to calm him down. “Count to sixty in your head. Then it will be done.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. As the numbers rose in his mind, he hit the ground. I mentally counted with him, flipping the egg over to finish frying. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. I glanced at my phone. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Hmm, more news on that virus thing. Forty-nine. Fifty. I set the phone down, reaching up to grab a plate from a nearby cabinet. Fifty-seven. Quickly, I slapped his egg onto the plate, then picked him up to show him just as he yelled out, “SIXTY!”

As he ate, I read the news. I was glad I didn’t live on the East Coast. I had enough to deal with at the moment.

Callie Evans, 15. Clarksville, Tennessee.

One week into Summer break and I was already bored.

To be fair, there was plenty to keep me busy. I just didn’t want to do it. I wanted to do something grand and exciting, but everyone in the family wanted to stay home. I didn’t even know what grand and exciting thing that I even wanted to do. I just wanted it.

So instead, I laid in bed with my feet on the wall listening to music through my ear buds.

Why’d they call it Summer break when it began in May?

Pondering over that, I rolled off my bed and wandered upstairs to my brother’s room. He’d know. He knew everything.

Blue and green light came out from under his door, along with the sound of drums. I opened his door slightly and peered in. His room was a mess. Posters of sports cars and album covers were pasted and peeled on the walls. His gaming desk was so full of encyclopedias, collections of action figures, and CD cases that I don’t even know how he had room for his computer and gaming system, but somehow he managed to shove it on there. On one wall an illuminated sign alternately flashing blue and green spelled out “NATHAN.” Under it, my brother sat, pounding away at his drum set.

That was Nate. Wonderful, amazing Nate.

He once asked me if I’d trade him for a genuine Stradivarius. Though music, especially violin, was my life, I’d never trade him for anything. Not even a thousand Stradivariuses.

He looked up as I peered in. “You need something?” he asked, stopping his performance.

“Why is it called Summer break when it starts in Spring?”

He didn’t laugh at my random question. Instead, he thought for a moment. “Don’t you already get a Spring break?”

“Yeah, but it’s called Easter break, not Spring. Spring break is what you get.”

“Oh, I get Easter break too.” He grinned. “Perks of being in college.”

I shot him a look. I wasn’t interested in college at all, and he found it funny. Every chance he got, he wanted to sell the idea of college to me. It didn’t work. I still hated the thoughts of degrees and universities.

“It’s Summer break because it’s mostly in the summer,” he finally explained. He glanced at his wrist for a the time, but finding no watch, he looked around for a clock. It was probably buried. “What time is it?”

I checked my phone. “Almost 8.”

“Thanks. I’ve got a few minutes more.” He picked up his drumsticks again. “If mom asks, I won’t be home for supper tonight. I’m going to Noah’s house after work.”

“I’ll tell her.” I left his room, hearing him beat on his drums again. He certainly was interesting. He was incredibly smart, talented with music, loved gaming, working on a soybean farm, and was in college to get his EMS degree. I loved him. He was a little bit of everything, which made him perfect.

However, I was still bored. Maybe I’d go take a walk.

Verity Brennan, 16. Heavener, Oklahoma.

I was pretending I didn’t exist.

I had my music cranked up really loud in my headphones as I marched up the road. Just make it to the tracks. I needed to walk this off.

Oh anxiety.

Verity, breathe, I reminded myself. It’ll be alright. No one you love will be hurt. All will be well.

I wrapped my jacket tighter around me, ignoring the warmer weather. The pressure on my chest felt good. I wanted to ram my head into a tree, and yet at the same time curl up in the ditch and have a good cry.

My shoes slapped the worn pavement, soles coming loose. I loved these shoes. The sound they made was repetitive and soothing. Mom hated them. She bought me a brand-new pair though she didn’t have to, thinking that I’d want to wear unbroken ones. She didn’t understand. She would never understand.

My mind replayed the last few minutes at the house – how mom yelled and Charity started crying and the food burned in the skillet because I got lost again in my head and the news that I’d seen on my phone was haunting me. My breath came quicker. Don’t think about it. You’re okay. It’s going to be fine.

But it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t.

I rounded the corner, heading up Stand Pipe Road to the railway tracks. I didn’t understand what was going on. In my head, I had broken down all the pieces that I knew, analyzing them and making some bits make sense. However, I had questions – deep questions – and everyone simply told me to stop worrying and forget about it and that nothing was going to happen but everything was going to happen and no one was listening and I was scared but I shouldn’t be scared.

I opened my eyes. I was curled up in a fetal position in the middle of the road.

Okay. I needed help.

I stood, shaking slightly. I hated when this happened. Still trembling, I took my headphones off, clutching them so tightly that my knuckles turned white. How they didn’t break, I didn’t know.

A drop of water fell on my hand and I realized I was crying. I was so glad I didn’t live on a busy road. Imagine if someone caught me like this.

My phone buzzed in my back pocket and I shuddered. Please don’t be mom. Please. I hesitantly looked at the brightened screen.

Everly Brennan. My half-sister. Not my mom, thank God.

I answered the phone, putting it on speakerphone because I hated the feel of it right by my ear. I didn’t say anything, but Everly was used to that.

“Hey girl,” her cheerful voice came. “Do you need a moment, or is this a-”

“Stay,” I croaked out, desperate. “I need you to stay.”

“Sure.” I could hear her settling down somewhere. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Will we die?”

“Wait? What?”

I took a breath, trying to recalibrate my thoughts.

“Verity, what’s going on?” My sister sounded worried. “Are you having another panic attack? Who is with you?”

“No one is with me.” My voice was shaky and I wanted to crumple again. Don’t do it. Hold yourself together. People will think you’re crazy. “I’m on the road. I’m scared.”

“Hyperfocus on something. Just not anything that’ll make it worse. Focus on me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere until you want me to.” Everly was such a comfort. “I love you, girl. Okay?”

“I know. Thank you.” I swallowed a dry sob and stepped off the road. I was slowly calming down, but I knew my reflexes weren’t going to hold up if anyone came flying down the road. “I just lost it. With everything going on, and Charity being sicker, and it’s... it’s just really hard to not think of it all.”

“Hey, I was born when they did the whole pandemic drama years ago,” Everly pointed out. “It all ended up okay, didn’t it? This one will be no different. With every illness, people are going to die, but there’s typically other reasons behind it. They have something else going on.” I could just imagine the little shrug she surely just did. “You’re going to be fine.”

“What about Charity?”

She was silent.

“Everly. What about Charity?”

“She’d be higher risk,” she admitted, but hastily added, “but that doesn’t mean that it’ll be bad. She’s strong. You all are going to be fine, even Charity. Out of all of us, I’m the one that’d be most likely to get it, here on campus anyway.”

I froze again. The Oklahoma State University campus was huge. A virus would spread so quickly among so many people. They’d-

“However,” she still was saying, “that doesn’t mean you have to worry about me. Don’t worry about this at all. We’re all going to be fine.”

“Okay,” I numbly said, trying to hang on to what she said last and ignore every other little thing before because I didn’t need to break down again today. “I, uh, I’ve got to go.”

“Sure thing then. Talk to you later!”

As I hung up, I shivered. Then, I turned back to my house.

Daniel Weston, 18. Port Wentworth, Georgia.

I heard the first click and knew I found the first pin. I adjusted the tension wrench and continued. Another. Another. There we go, I thought. Fastest I’ve done yet. Forty-five seconds and I was in the house.

My friend, Mason, slipped in behind me, scanning the room. “How could someone have so much stuff in one room?” he laughed quietly. He nudged a fancy vase with his foot. “Man, that looks weird.”

“Shut your trap,” I commanded, holding a finger to my lips. “Are you sure this place is empty?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Ain’t seen no one come in here since Wednesday.”

“And that means...?”

He rolled his eyes. “In three days, somebody would have to be seen walking around, leaving, watering flowers, feeding birds, or whatever old ladies do. Trust me man, there’s no one. I’ve watched this place for weeks.” He grinned. “Ya’ scared?”

I glared at him. “No. Know your limits.” I peered around the cluttered entryway. How many pairs of shoes could one person have? “Go find the office and search it. I’ll clear the bedrooms.”

Mason nodded and took off, weaving around random pillars, vases, and elaborate chairs that lay littered around the hall. I went up the curving staircase to the second floor, trying to ignore the accusing eyes of dead ancestors as they stared out from dusty picture frames along the walls. I felt uneasy, and it wasn’t because great-great-uncle Charles had these really creepy blue eyes. Who puts a picture that freaky at the top of the stairs to stare at as you’re walking up? It was the stuff of nightmares.

I snuck into the first bedroom, wishing I could just flip on a light. It was dark in here, and my faint light wasn’t getting all it should. Closets. There’s always stuff in the closets. I tore the thin door open, clothes spilling out onto the floor. I rummaged through the fabric, my nose wrinkling at the overpowering perfume. How could someone stand that much?

I yanked out a little box from the back and shook it. I grinned at the clinking sound I heard inside. I shoved it in an inner pocket in my coat and continued. There was probably so much junk in here that was worth millions, and I knew we were going to barely scratch the surface. I moved on to the next room.

As soon as I entered, I knew that something was wrong in there. There was a rank stench in the air. I froze, listening. I documented the noise I heard. Air conditioning. My breathing. The creak of my leather coat. The pressure of my weight on the floorboards. Mason downstairs. A moan.

A moan.

I shone my light around the room. Anyone in here would have to know I was in the house already. I lit up the bed. No one. I moved around cautiously. Rounding the side of the bed, which was really weird with these fluttery curtains on it and way too many pillows, I noticed that it wasn’t made. The sheets were still rumpled and crumpled together. As someone who only slept on a flattened mattress with roaches and mites, my chest tightened. Here I was starving, having nothing, and living in filth and other people could just walk out of their silken sheets, drape gold over their head, and strut around knowing when and where their next meal came from.

The unfairness of it all.

Then my light hit something on the floor. I stared at it for a moment, not realizing what it was. The thin gown, the faded gray hair, and the violet veins rising up from her skinny hands and arms made me pause. I withdrew my pistol and poked her with it, ready to use it to encourage absolute silence. Her eyes flickered and locked into mine.

Now, I’m not the ugliest guy on earth, but I’m not really attractive either with my shaggy brown hair, bushy eyebrows, sharply cut chin, and large dark eyes that made me look younger than I was. So, when I heard her whisper under her breath something about me being an angel sent from heaven, I was confused beyond description. Clothed in mostly black, with flea bites on my legs under my jeans, and having a face that was on the verge of hollow – yeah, I really felt angelic.

But I still paused.

She must’ve fallen when she was getting out of bed, I concluded. The stench around her was almost overwhelming. Had she been lying here since Wednesday? We were going on four days then on the floor.

Mason gave a low whistle from under me; our signal for clearing out. He was done. The woman tried to tell me something else, but she couldn’t get more out. I stared weakly at her emaciated form. What could I do? I couldn’t just leave her. And, I had to get out and gone too. I couldn’t just walk away though.

I reholstered my gun. “Hey ma’am,” I whispered, “don’t worry, okay? I’m gonna get someone here for ya’. You’re gonna be alright.”

She nodded weakly, eyes once more fluttering shut.

I half ran down the stairs, ignoring great-great-uncle Charles with the creepy eyes. I threw the box of stuff that I’d found at Mason and almost laughed at his startled face. “Get out,” I hissed instead. “I’ll catch up with you.”

He swore as he saw me reach for the phone on the wall. “What are you thinking?” he cried, slapping it out of my hands. “Do you want to go to jail?”

I shoved him back. “No, but you have to trust me. There’s a lady up there that’s hurt and I just can’t leave her to die.”

He looked disgusted. “Man, you’re getting soft or something. Next thing you’re gonna wanna save a puppy from a house fire.” He backed off from me as I glared at him. “Sure, get yourself arrested,” he spat. “Just don’t mention my name when you’re getting questioned by the cops.”

I rolled my eyes as he cleared out of the house. I picked the phone up. What was I thinking? This was so risky. I shook my head. Should I do it? Her eyes. They begged me to help. They believed I was there to help. I couldn’t leave her. Numbly, I dialed 9-1-1.

The sharp, female voice came through the phone. “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

“Hey, uh I’m at the corner of Kinzie Avenue and there’s a lady here that’s needing some help.” Man, I sounded so awkward.

“Okay, what’s the exact address of the home?” The dispatcher asked. “We’re going to get help out there. Don’t worry.”

I swallowed nervously. I hated talking to a cop. “15 Kinzie Avenue. She’s upstairs.”

“Are you there with her, honey?”

“Uh, no,” I lied.

“Can you stay on the phone until the police arrive?”

“Probably not.” I needed to get off the line. Why did I do this?

“Are you okay honey?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m fine. I’ve got to go.”

“I need you to stay on the phone. What’s your name?”

“Ma’am, I’ve got to go.” I wanted to get out of here. “Just get here to her. Please.”

“Son, please st-”

I hung up and tore out of the house, speeding away on my motorcycle that I had shoved beside a bush nearby. Hopefully, they’d help her out. I had to save myself now.

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There’s something about a character that’s broken that I’m attracted to. It’s a hill I will die on, I suppose. The best stories I know are full of broken people. How can I not talk about them, resonate with them where I can, and try to replicate the heart-tearing emotion that they are wrapped up in?

Emotional characters are my favorite. I love the ones that make my heart hurt. I just want to peel myself out of the real world, slip off the restraints of reality, and step into the black and white, holding them tight against my chest, letting their tears gather on my shirt. I want to comfort them. While they tore my heart to shreds, I want to sew theirs back together.

I want to ease the burden that gave a longing for the Havens in the west. I want to wrap a motherly arm around a little thief in a nest of rubble. I want to see a smile on a falsely accused man’s face that thought he’d never be at peace again. I want to smooth back the bleached hair of a boy that’s seen too much.

But how do you give that to your character? How do you break them that bad that people cry over them? And, how do you dare to keep them that way?

Just know that when you do this, you will forever be known as that author that hurt the reader’s babies. That’s just how stuff like this works.

Sometimes, you have to leave the character with scars. Sometimes, they don’t end up with a happy ending. Sometimes, they stay broken.

How do you do that to someone?

For some reason, my favorite characters in books and movies are the ones that didn’t end up happy. They learned a lesson, but that lesson didn’t make sunshine and rainbows rise in their life. They still cry. They still lose. They still hurt. They still look for complete peace, sometimes finding it in ways that break even more hearts but finally gives them what they needed.

Those are the characters that I like to create too. And sometimes, I leave them there in the pain.

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But why? What’s the point of that?

Because in reality, some people don’t get a happy ending. Some people end broken. And half the time, the other people in their life never know the storms that they battled inside their head that eventually got too wild. They never saw the anxiety and depression. And the really sad thing? If the person had said, “Hey, I’m hurting. I’m anxious. I’m depressed. I’m dealing with a lot and it’s breaking my heart and soul,” the others most of the time wouldn’t believe them. No one would stop and help. The hurt person would be told that they were seeking attention and that they couldn’t be that bad.

If that’s not a tragedy, I don’t know what is.

When your character is hurting, one way to really make the reader’s heart hurt alongside them is to have the other characters either not notice or downplay the pain. More people than you realize actually will understand completely how the character feels.

Writing about the fake smiles and laughter that your character has to do to hide the grief and darkness that haunts them is a sure way to break a reader’s heart. How many times have we all hidden what’s broken because the world would simply chew us up and spit us out for not being who they wanted us to be and the whole reason we’re not is because they broke us in the first place?

A gentle author would fix it by the end. They’d actually have a smile. They’d walk away and be finally whole.

I’m not a gentle author.

If you want to really tear hearts out, leave them haunted. The character that watched his loved ones die before his eyes won’t move on. The character that struggles with anxiety still gets hit with it. The character that walks with trauma just gets paired up with another traumatized person and they’ll just sit together, matching their memories and tears, mirroring the other. The character that had painful thoughts finally hurt too much.

Your readers will never forget them. They will see shadows of the characters in people, watching and aware for once. They understand. They notice. They finally see. No longer does that reader brush off a cry for help. Their heart has begged and pleaded to step out of themselves and save the characters that didn’t get the peace that they needed. They know now.

I keep some characters broken for the people that stayed broken. My characters hurt because other people hurt. I do it for the soldiers that can’t drive under bridges anymore. I do it for the girls with scars on their wrists. I do it for the mothers that get teary-eyed walking by a young mom with a newborn, feeling empty. I do it for the boys that wear bruises on their fists and bleed from their knuckles. I do it for the children that jump at a slamming door or a raised voice. I do it for the men that numb themselves to forget. I do it for the shell in the casket that was tired and needed relief.

Because they need someone to relate to.

They need to know that they are not alone - that someone sees them and hears the tears that fell when they thought no one was watching. They need to know that they can reach out and someone will listen. Even if the first few people tell them that they shouldn’t be hurt, someone will listen. Someone will hear them. Someone will understand. Someone will take the scars and stroke a tender finger over them, whispering something soothing, wanting to heal them. Anything to save them from another tragedy.

Not everyone gets a happy ending. However, imagine the people that need your tragic ending.

Sometimes, keep them broken. Something beautiful may come out of it.

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“It has been reported that several more people have contracted the virus known as Pins today. Due to the rapid spread of the virus, people are encouraged to stay home and avoid contact with others...”

Alexander Ward, 19. Lewistown, Montana.

I pulled up in my mom’s driveway, raising an eyebrow at the sullen young man on the porch. He looked at me and scowled as I parked my truck and stepped out. “Mom told me you were going to take me to your place.”

I nodded, slamming my truck door behind me. I could never close it gently. “Yeah, you’re coming home with me. Mom wants you to get away for a bit.”

“No, she just doesn’t like Hannah hanging around.”

I sighed. “I’m sure she has her reasons.” I gave him a warning look, hoping that he’d straighten up. I wasn’t going to deal with a moody teenager at my place. His honey-gold eyes were bitter as he stared at me, interpreting my look. Finally, he shrugged, no longer talking back.

I was okay with that.

Verity Brennan, 16. Heavener, Oklahoma.

My dad wanted to talk about the virus at the table. Every word he said made me look at my sister. The visions of the kindergarteners dying from the virus haunted me, making me anxious. I wanted to tell him to stop, but I didn’t dare. Once he got rambling, it wouldn’t fix anything to cut in.

My sister, large green eyes staring up at my dad, soaked every word he said up into her mind. Inwardly, I groaned, knowing that she’d bring up any questions she was creating to me later. Her skin, pale as ever, caught my attention and I fixated on it instead of my dad.

I did that a lot – fixating on something. I let it take over my mind, running everything else over. Mom would tell me that it wasn’t healthy, but if it calmed me, I was going to do it. My eyes traced over every vein, drowning out my dad.

No one was going to die. Everything was okay.

Callie Evans, 15. Clarksville, Tennessee.

I scrolled through my phone that night, seeing the news stories that my brother was reading earlier. I absentmindedly nibbled on a fingernail as I read the news. I didn’t care that much about current events normally, but there was something about this that held my attention.

Above me, I could hear my brother on his games with his friends, laughing over something. A brief thought crossed my mind, but I shook it away. They’d always do that. Nothing was going to change.

Kylee Stevans, 16. Crescent City, California.

My brother knocked on my door in the night. Stumbling over, I whispered, “What is it Gabe?”

“Water,” he mumbled as I opened the door. His small, almond-shaped eyes peered at me in the darkness. “Water.”

“Okay buddy. Let’s get you some water.” I took his tiny, thin hand and guided him through the hall. I always tried to be patient with him. Even though he was eight years old, he had some struggles that brought him back to the mentality of a three-year-old. I used all my patience on him. I had very little left for the world.

After giving him his cup, drying his chin, and walking him back to his bedroom, I leaned against the wall beside his door. Faintly, from an open window, I could hear the waves crashing against the sandy beach. Letting the sound wash over me, I closed my eyes.

Just as I was falling asleep, his little voice broke through the peace. “Ky-ky. Monster.”

“I’m here, Gabe. There’s no monsters.”

“Okay.”

I settled back down into a peaceful slumber on the hallway floor. This is where I ended up most nights anyway.

Daniel Weston, 18. Port Wentworth, Georgia.

I couldn’t sleep.

I didn’t know why I couldn’t. I just could not, for the life of me, get my mind to turn off. The cigarette in my mouth grew short as I stared up at the moldy ceiling.

What if.

That’s what haunted me. I couldn’t get past it. There was a bitter taste in my mouth – not from the cigarette – and somehow, I noticed it. Every ache in my body was screaming “DANGER!” at the top of their lungs and I just laid there, unable to move and react because I didn’t know what was going on, who triggered this, or how to fix it. I couldn’t drink this away.

The sky outside was just turning pink, oblivious to the possibilities that could be starting in God knows where. New York. Alanta. Cincinnati. There was no way to know.

The guys are going to think I’ve gone mad, I thought.

The gut feeling in me clung on. Something was wrong, and I was always right.

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…

“Reports from New Jersey, Maryland, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania have all confirmed the spread of the virus. At this moment, the total number of individuals that have contracted the virus has risen to one hundred, seventy-two. The number of deaths from this virus has also risen to three.

Doctors are still unaware of the methods this virus uses to transmit itself. Officials say that the best thing to do at this moment is to isolate and avoid contact with others.

This is Liam Wyllen, ABC News.”

…

Nathaniel Maher, 17. Sharpsburg, North Carolina.

Pictures of the two new fatalities rose on the screen. An older man from New Jersey and another woman from New York. As the images faded, new ones depicting the effects of the virus appeared. I absentmindedly stirred my cereal as I watched the TV screen. The dots on the pale skin of the patient looked like they burned, and the eyes they showed were wide and bloodshot. It reminded me of smallpox and measles. But blended together. And with pink eye thrown in.

It wasn’t natural.

I knew it. Dad knew it. Everyone had to know it.

They are doing it again.

Hadley Briar, 14. Outside of Alliance, Nebraska.

I awoke early, proceeding to scroll through my social media before my grandparents started moving about. Pictures from the morning news came across my feed, and I hesitated as I stared at them.

The virus was intense. For being a natural mutation, I thought, it certainly is strong. I shrugged. Then again, I reasoned, bacteria can mutate and become something stronger. There was no reason this virus couldn’t either.

Then it dawned on me.

It’s a virus. There is no bacteria. Antibiotics aren’t going to work. New medicines needed to be created to fight it.

As an herbalist, this scared me.

How would I treat it if it came this far west?

Alexander Ward, 19. Lewistown, Montana.

“You couldn’t have gotten better cell reception???”

I rolled over and groaned. It was four in the morning, and he wanted better internet. Just ignore him, I thought. All he wants to do is text his girlfriend anyway.

“You couldn’t have gotten a freaking better plan up here? How -”

I was done. I vaulted out of bed, crossed the hall, and threw open the door to his room. Without saying a word, I took the phone from his startled hand and left with full plans to get him chopping wood at daylight.

I’d show him what a boy his age should care about.

. . .

He was not happy with me. He cussed and swore and threw the wood around for a little while. I hated that he had turned out like this. Part of me regretted giving him a task that involved an ax, but what could I do? He needed to get his temper out and keep his hands busy.

Since our dad died in a logging accident a few years back, Josiah had been allowed to run wild. No one was there to grab him by the back of the neck, give him a good shake, and straighten him out. As his older brother, I could only do so much for him. If he barely listened to his mother, what control did I have over him?

I watched him from a window in the kitchen. He put his hands on his hips and stopped for a moment. The swearing faded as he bent and finally picked up a fat block of wood. As the ax slammed into it, I smiled and left the window.

He was going to be alright.

Wilder Ashton, 17. Outside of Silverton, Colorado.

I heard the report over the radio. I wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest, but Grandpa stopped to listen. I didn’t care about all that stuff. It interrupted the music.

The truck rumbled over potholes as Grandpa leaned in closer. I tried to slow down a little bit. This old truck couldn’t take too much on these wild dirt roads. I itched for the pavement. Something about taking the petal to the floor and hearing the gears change and feeling that slight pressing into your seat as you take off was thrilling.

“Do ya’ want to isolate?” Grandpa laughed as the music came back on. “That’s what they’re a’sayin’.”

“Not really,” I grinned. “I like going out.” I flicked on the blinker as we turned off the gravel. “I couldn’t stand to just stay home – no offense to you and Grandma.”

“None taken.” He shook his head. “Shoulda turned on that there blinker sooner.”

I shrugged. “No one’s behind me. I’m fine.”

“When ya’ git to town, ya’ won’t be fine. Cop ’ll come and pull ya’ over. Then it won’t seem as fine.”

“I know.” I picked up a bit more speed.

The Silverton welcome sign greeted us, faded but standing. I passed my favorite house, an old blue one on Greene Street, and grinned. I loved the porch on it. Snowcapped mountains surrounded the entire town, sheltering it from any outside drama. Gazing at the view, I pulled up to the pumps outside of the old Triangle Motel. I’d never tire of this place.

As I pumped gas into the truck, the cold air from off the mountains hit the back of my neck. I turned the collar of my leather jacket up. That was better. Though I couldn’t wait for summer, as I wasn’t a fan of the colder weather, I did like the look my jacket and longer hair gave me. I peered at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

Oh yeah. I was certainly fine.

Very fine.

As I ran my fingers through my hair, admiring the slight highlights in the mass of brown, my grandpa rolled down the window. All he had to do was clear his throat, and I snapped out of my pride.

He gave me a look. Oh, could he give one too. The way his eyebrow went up and his eyes burnt through your soul and all you wanted to do was step behind the gas pump and pretend you didn’t exist. That’s what one of his looks were like.

The pump did that thing where it sounded like it seized up and wanted to tip over but was telling me it was finished instead, so I turned away from the mirror. These old things would probably explode one of these days. They looked like they’d been there since the mid-1900’s. Grandpa liked them though, so I couldn’t say anything about it. He was strict like that.

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