respect, even though the old man couldn’t see him do it. He took a seat across from him.
“Sir…my men combed the woods and found the body of a little boy.”
“Yes?”
“I believe it’s your little brother David.”
David Olson’s older brother, Ambrose, sat still as a statue. The sheriff couldn’t see his eyes. But slowly, he noticed that tears started running from the bottoms of his bandages.
Chapter 33
Christopher looked at the sky filled with clouds. He couldn’t remember ever seeing so many. Big beautiful clouds spilling snow on them like confetti at a parade.
His friends couldn’t believe their luck.
A snow day!
A big, delicious snow day.
“Jeez, Chris. Maybe you really do control the weather,” Special Ed joked.
Christopher forced a smile. Of course, he knew the snow could have been a coincidence.
Or not.
His mother had dropped him off at the 3 Hole Golf course that morning to meet his friends for “sledding” with a hug, a kiss, and a stern reminder.
“No woods. I’m not playing around.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he said.
“There’s no thanks here. The only reason I am letting you do this at all is that half the town is on this hill. Do not leave this spot until I come back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
The mothers told their boys they would pick them up after work (or a day of beauty, in the case of Special Ed’s mom). Either way, that gave them more than eight hours to get back to the tree house and finish.
This was their chance.
They waited for their mothers to drive away, then walked back through the parking lot with their red plastic sleds. They passed parents grumbling about longer commutes and road conditions while their children made plans with their friends to squeeze the most out of God’s unplanned vacation day.
Fueled by Special Ed’s thermos of hot chocolate and backpack of junk food, the boys trudged through the snow all the way back to the Mission Street Woods. They stopped just outside. The trees were limp under the weight of the snow. Silent witnesses to history. Christopher thought these trees had been here for hundreds of years. Maybe thousands. These trees were older than their country. These trees would be here long after they were all dead.
Unless Mr. Collins got to them first.
Christopher led the boys to the spot where he hid all the windows. As they dug them out, the snow got caught on their wrists, giving their arms an ice cream headache. But Christopher felt nothing.
They reached the clearing within five minutes, dragging the windows behind them on their red plastic sleds. The boys fought their way through the snowdrifts. Cutting through the beautiful white powder that seemed to hide the clearing away from the world. Like a mountain before anyone ever thought to ski.
They reached the tree.
They did not speak. They just worked in silence, occasionally grunting a word to coordinate tying the rope off to hoist the windows up. Or get the right screwdriver. Or seal the windows with weather stripping.
The boys used their muscle to move the planks of the roof into place. Their hammers pushed the nails through the wood like a knife through warm butter. The wind whipped around, turning their cheeks red and wet with cold. Special Ed and Mike finished the roof within two hours while Matt and Christopher put black shutters on the windows. When the roof was laid down, all four boys climbed on top of the tree house and began nailing down the shingles. One by one. As fast as they could. Tap tap tap like four manual typewriters.
Until they were done.
When he reached the last shingle of the roof, Christopher stopped. There was one more nail to drive home. He asked the guys who would like to finish it.
“You do the honors,” Mike said.
“Chris! Chris! Chris!” his friends cheered.
Christopher grabbed the hammer and struck the last nail. They all carefully climbed down off the roof to the ground. The four boys stood, looking up at their creation with silent reverence. A perfect little tree house with shutters and windows and a real door with a lock. The floor with the secret door and a rope ladder for emergencies. It was beautiful. Exactly as Christopher pictured it in his mind. It was better than his graph paper drawings. Better than any house he ever planned except for the ones for his mom.
The tree house was done.
“Who wants to climb first?” Matt asked.
There was no debate.
Christopher climbed.
His friends followed.
The boys moved up the 2x4 stairs like baby teeth. They