“Guys, maybe we should have told our parents where we’re going,” Matt said.
“Are you kidding? Mom would never let us,” Mike said.
“But if we get lost, no one knows where to find us.”
“Christopher got lost in here for six days. He knows his way around,” Special Ed said.
Matt looked to Christopher for some backup, but Christopher was staring at the big colorful leaves. The wind slow-danced around them. It felt like the woods were breathing.
“Yeah. So, stop being a wimp,” Mike said to his little brother by three minutes.
“I’m not a wimp.”
“Then, prove it. Go first.”
“Fine. I will,” Matt said without moving.
“Come on. What are you waiting for? Trees don’t bite.”
“I said I’m going!”
But Matt wouldn’t take a step. He was too afraid.
“Come on, guys. Follow me,” Christopher finally said.
Christopher went in first, ending the game and saving Matt his dignity. The boys followed him under the canopy of trees and were swallowed by the Mission Street Woods.
Christopher walked down a footpath, trying to find the trail from the Collins Construction site to the clearing. But all he saw was that their feet weren’t leaving footprints. Maybe the ground was that dry. And if they got lost, no one could find them. With the clearing hidden behind acres of trees, no one would ever know that they were even there.
For a moment, he had a sense of déjà vu. Footprints of a little kid. Lying on the ground like a trail of bread crumbs. In his mind, he saw himself walking down a trail. Following the tracks. He didn’t know if that was a dream or not. All he knew was that he probably shouldn’t tell his friends about it because they would say he was crazy. Something cracked up ahead. Branches like bones.
“Look, Chris,” Matt whispered.
Matt pointed up ahead on the trail.
A deer was looking at them.
It stood in the path, still as a lawn ornament. It locked eyes with Christopher, then slowly began to walk into the deep woods. A direction that Christopher had never been.
“Where is it going?” Matt whispered.
Christopher didn’t answer. He just followed. Step after step. The headache creeping up his neck. Finding his temples. Pushing him farther. Down a narrow path. Christopher looked to his left and saw…
…an abandoned refrigerator.
It lay on the ground like a rusted skeleton. It was filled with twigs and leaves. A nest for something. Or someone.
“Chris?” Special Ed said, pointing ahead. He sounded scared. “What is that?”
Christopher looked up ahead and saw the deer walk into a large tunnel. It looked like a cave mouth. Wood-framed and rotting. Christopher approached the old coal mine. There was something so familiar about it.
“We shouldn’t go in there,” Matt said.
But Christopher didn’t listen. He felt compelled to keep moving. He entered the dark tunnel. The boys followed. The world went black. The old mine cart tracks were bumpy under their feet. The whole place smelled like pee from a “long shot” bathroom.
Special Ed turned on his flashlight. Christopher grabbed the flashlight and clicked it off.
“Don’t. You’ll scare it away,” Christopher whispered.
“I’ll scare it?” Special Ed asked.
The boys followed the deer out of the mine tunnel. Christopher looked down and saw the footprints of what looked like hundreds of deer. And other creatures who lived and died for generations in these woods, never knowing that there was such a thing as man. Then, he looked up.
The four boys had reached the clearing.
They hadn’t realized how dark the footpath was because their eyes needed time to adjust to the light. They blinked and covered their eyes for just a moment.
That’s when they saw the tree.
It was the only tree for a hundred yards. It sat dead center in the middle of the clearing. A crooked hand ripping out of the earth’s cheek like a pimple.
The boys were silent. They had forgotten all about the deer, who stood still, staring at them. They began to walk. Little by little. Moving silently toward the tree. Mike’s arms, which had been so heavy under the weight of the wheelbarrow, suddenly felt light. Matt’s throat, which had been scratchy with thirst and the last gasp of strep throat that antibiotics had wiped out, swallowed and felt no pain. Special Ed, who had been scheming for the last five minutes as to how to avoid sharing the two bags of Oreos, suddenly didn’t care if he ever ate again. And Christopher’s dull headache, the kind that couldn’t be drowned with Children’s Tylenol or Advil mixed with applesauce, finally left the space behind his eyes, and he felt relief. There was no pain. No fear. Not anymore.
Christopher arrived at the tree first. He reached out his hand, half expecting the bark to feel like flesh. But it felt right. Strong, weathered bark with ridges like wrinkles. It reminded him of Ambrose, that nice old man from the hospital.
“We’ll build it here,” Christopher said.
“It’s so creepy,” Special Ed said, following it with a quick “Awesome.”
Christopher unrolled his blueprints, and the boys began. While they unloaded the supplies, Christopher peeled the Bad Cat backpack off his shoulders and let the tools fall with a clank. He pulled out a hammer and a nail.
“Matt. You get dibs on the first nail,” Christopher said.
“No,” Matt said. “It’s yours, Chris. You do it.”
Christopher looked at his friends. They all nodded in agreement. Mike and Matt held the first 2x4 up to the tree. Right next to a century of initials that teenagers had carved on their way to adulthood. WT + JT. AH + JV. Names in rows like identical houses. Johnny and Barbara. Michael and Laurie. Right before he struck the first nail into the tree, Christopher saw the freshest initial carved into it. A single letter.
D.
After the first nail had punctured the tree, the boys started hammering the 2x4s. One on top of the other. A little ladder reaching up the tree like a row of baby teeth. They would have run out of wood quickly, but Christopher had foreseen this problem. The boys never asked him where the big pile of wood came from. Maybe they didn’t notice. Or maybe they just assumed.
But he had already started building.
He had actually worked on it for three weeks. Talking to the nice man. Making trips back and forth to the Collins woodpile. Preparing and planning. Stocking up for this moment with his friends. The nice man said it was best to keep quiet about these things until you had to make noise.
Luckily, the security guard was always in the foreman’s trailer, watching sports on a little portable TV. He was so busy screaming “Yes,” “No,” and “You call that interference, you blind asshole?!” that he never saw the little boy raiding his boss’s woodpile.
Christopher wanted to talk to the nice man now, but he didn’t want to frighten his friends. They had no idea he was there, watching them. At one point, Mike reached out to grab the white plastic bag and fill it with nails.
“Don’t touch that,” Christopher said.
Mike immediately put the bag back on the low-hanging branch and returned to work. It was never said that Christopher was in charge. But nobody questioned him. Not even Mike, and he was the strongest.