The Great Alone

A creak from upstairs.

Dad frowned, stared up at the loft, headed toward the ladder.

Sit still, Matthew.

Dad touched the loft ladder, looked up. Frowned. Leni saw him lift a foot, place it on the bottom rung.

Mama bent down, picked up Matthew’s boots, and dropped them in the big cardboard boot box by the door. She did it in a gliding, single motion, and then slipped in beside Dad. She said, “Let’s show Leni the snow machine,” loud enough for Matthew to hear. “It’s parked out over by the goat pen.”

Dad let go of the loft ladder and turned to them. There was a strange look in his eyes. Did he suspect? “Sure. Come on.”

Leni followed her dad to the door. When he opened it, she glanced back, looked up at the loft.

Go, Matthew, she thought. Run.

Mama held Leni’s hand tightly as they walked across the deck and down into the grass, as if she feared Leni might turn and run.

In the cove, Matthew’s aluminum boat captured the sunlight, glittered silver against the shore. The sudden squall had scrubbed the landscape, left everything shiny. Light glinted off a million drops of water, on blades of grass and wildflowers.

Leni said something quickly—she didn’t even know what, just something to make her dad turn to her and away from the beach.

“There she is,” he said when they came to the rusted trailer hitched to the truck. A dented snow machine sat there, its seat a torn-up mess, missing its headlight. “Duct tape will fix that seat so it’s practically new.”

Leni thought she heard the cabin door click open and the creak of a footfall on the deck.

“It’s great!” she yelled. “We can use it for ice fishing and caribou hunting. It’ll come in handy to have two snow machines.”

She heard the distinct whine of an outboard motor starting up and the scree of it winding up for speed.

Dad pushed Leni aside. “Is that a boat in our cove?”

Below, the aluminum skiff was planed high, pointed bow lifted proudly out of the water, speeding for the point.

Leni held her breath. There was no doubt it was Matthew, his blond hair, his brand-new boat. Would Dad recognize him?

“Damn tourists,” Dad said at last, turning away. “Those rich college kids think they own this state in the summer. I’m putting up NO TRESPASSING signs.”

They’d done it. Gotten away with it. We did it, Matthew.

“Leni.”

Her mama’s voice. Sharp. She sounded angry, or maybe scared.

Mama and Dad were both staring at her.

“What?” Leni said.

“Your dad was talking to you,” Mama said.

Leni smiled easily. “Oops. Sorry.”

Dad said, “I guess you were woolgathering, as my old man used to say.”

Leni shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Leni heard the tone change in his voice, and it concerned her. She saw now how intently he was staring at her. Maybe they hadn’t gotten away with it after all. Maybe he knew … maybe he was toying with her.