in the snow.
Thinking about that boy still caused a dark hole to open in the pit of his stomach, something that felt like it would always be empty. Hollow. Sometimes when he thought about that boy, he remembered the picture he’d seen in Isaac Driscoll’s house, the one of the men fighting the bloody battle with spears and arrows. He wondered if pits opened inside of them each time they took a life, and thought that if they did, those men must feel like walking darkness.
At the first thaw, Jak had gone back for the blond boy’s bones, planning to bury them on the hillside where an old bent tree grew with a hundred million wildflowers all around that, from the close faraway, looked like rainbows touched the earth. There was a lake at the bottom of the hill where pairs of white swans—mates for life—floated, even in the winter when the water was icy and mostly frozen. He’d thought about it and decided that if someone was going to bury him, that’s the place he would hope they’d pick. But the blond boy’s bones had been gone, carried off by animals, scattered through the wilderness.
He dreamed of him sometimes, his body-less head talking to him from the ground, asking Jak to give back the rest of him. He woke up screaming, Pup whining next to him.
Jak picked up a stick and tossed it to Pup, who splashed through the water, taking the piece of wood in his mouth and bringing it back to Jak. He did this a few more times as Jak kept washing his body, looking with interest at all the places hair was sprouting, prickly like the late summer grass. His skin was rough and scarred, and he could feel the way his muscles had grown as he ran his hands over his bare skin. He’d grown so much taller since last winter that his pants were now way too short, and his shirt had ripped across his shoulders. He’d have to see what Driscoll would take for a few new pieces of clothing, though summer was coming, and new clothes could wait. He would rip the too-small pants into shorts and go shirtless for a while. He never looked forward to seeing Driscoll, so he’d live with what he had, and handmake anything he could.
How old am I now? Time was a cloudy, wavy line he couldn’t quite hold on to. He had no idea if it was Monday or Sunday, February, or March. Only the winters stood out to him—those dark, miserably cold days, when even the sun left early. Even though he had shelter now, and warmth when he could get matches from Driscoll, he still had to go outside to find food, and he and Pup were still alone when the wind screamed and howled and the roof shook, and it felt like the world was ending.
Sixteen, he thought, counting in his mind. I think I’m sixteen. He’d lived alone for ten winters.
Jak started making his way to the shore, whistling for Pup, who hadn’t come back with the stick Jak had tossed into the trees a while ago. Damn wolf had probably seen a squirrel and gone after it. Well, good for him if there were still a few things he wasn’t too limpy to hunt.
Jak used his shirt to towel off, shaking his shoulder-length hair like Pup did, water drops flying out around him. The back of his neck tickled and he raised his head, squinting into the forest. He felt . . . watched. He sensed it sometimes, like today. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck would stand up, and he’d feel sure someone was looking at him through the trees.
He whistled again, that feeling of being watched staying with him. Jak had learned to trust his instincts, to count on them for his survival, so he did not brush away the feeling. He wondered if the enemy sent spies into the forest to see who lived there and find out why. Or maybe others—like the blond boy—were living close by and watched Jak to find out if he was good or bad.
Jak pulled on his jeans, running his hand over the pocket to feel the hard bump of the pocketknife there and then grabbed the knife that had belonged to the blond boy, tying it to his waistband with an old piece of cloth from clothes he’d gotten too big for. He tossed the damp