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.
Somehow, children always know who the leader is.
As they worked, the sky got so windy that the trees swayed back and forth like teenagers’ arms at a concert. But despite the wind, every time Christopher looked up into the sky, the cloud face never moved.
It just seemed to watch them, building.
Chapter 22
After she dropped her son off at Special Ed’s house, Christopher’s mother had a