Cookie had been missing for a good three days now. No amount of calling could summon him, nor did the stale tuna bits sitting on the back porch lure him home. Sheridan sat on the front stoop all afternoon, waiting for her beige and brown pal. He never showed for his twelve-to-four catnap, not even with his favorite mat placed right in the sun.
With a sigh she heaved herself off the stoop and walked through the young suburbia, halting at the main road. Only thirteen-year-olds were allowed to explore into the forest beyond — her mother’s rule. But what if Cookie had gone in there? She couldn’t wait three years! Looking both ways, she hurried over the asphalt and disappeared down the ridge. The warm spring breeze drifted through the branches above, caressing their baby flower buds. New grass sprigs folded like feathers under her bright orange rain boots.
A loud crunch distracted her. Sheridan turned to see a thistle bush toppled over. A boy her age sprawled on top, startled eyes fixed on her. On instinct she ran as fast as the plastic boots could take her, the pursuer at her heels, footsteps drawing closer with every passing tree. Tripping through brush, she fell to her stomach at the edge of a drop-off, its cliff falling to a rocky outcropping below. Her head spun, the severe drop spinning before her eyes. Scrabbling back from the end she ran into a pair of legs. A hand clutched her shoulder.
“Don’t move!”
Sheridan stared into the trees, frozen. The hand helped her up and turned her around. A boy’s frightened eyes stared into hers, his face dirty, hair littered with small bush leaves. His other hand held a pocketknife, its end pointed at Sheridan’s ribs.
“Don’t move.”
She nodded, gulping her fear.
His gaze hardened. “What are you doing in my woods?”
“Your woods?”
He raised the knife to her head, shaking. “Yes, my woods!”
Tears burned her cheeks. “I’m just looking for my cat!”
He cocked his eyebrows.
“His name is Cookie, it’s on his collar. He’s brownish.”
The boy snorted. “I ain’t seen no collared cat.” He scanned the trees. “Who’s with you?”
“Nobody.”
“Put your hands behind your back.”
Sheridan obeyed. The boy pulled her forward, putting one hand to her neck, knife to her lower torso.
“Okay, go. Slowly.”
She eased through the bushes, the hand pushing her forward, steering her past thick trunks and roots and over an enormous fallen oak. Descending a final hill, they came to a small ravine. The boy’s eyes darted toward the forest behind them, then pushed Sheridan toward an old pine trunk that bridged the two sides.
“You first.”
Looking over the edge, she saw the bubbling stream flow past, wet pebbles reflecting the springtime sun. She gripped the log with two hands. The boy tapped the knife against his thigh.
“Come on!”
With trembling steps, Sheridan climbed up the tree roots, crawling across the slick bark with caterpillar speed. The boy jumped up after her, his sneakers grazing her boots with every step.
Nearing the end branches, the trunk began to thin, and with a slip of her palm, Sheridan’s chin slammed into the tree. She yelped as she straddled it, clinging like a terrified kitten. The boy looked back, then prodded her with his bare foot.
“Go!”
“No, I’ll die!”
He knelt carefully, loosening her legs and pushing her rear.
“No. You. Won’t.”
He peeled her off the trunk, releasing her in a final heave. She toppled onto the grass beyond. His shiny blade passed her head, landing on the dirt. She glanced for a second at its dark wooden handle, “Tim” etched expertly into the finish. The boy snatched it before pulling Sheridan to her feet.
“Back up, come on.”
“Tim?”
“What?”
“That’s you?”
“Yeah, so?”
Sheridan stood, wobbling to the side a bit. She rubbed her chin, a dark red streak appearing on the back of her hand.
“I’m bleeding!”
“You’ll be okay.” He aimed the blade at her once more.
Sheridan whimpered and put her hands behind her back. Prisoner and wild boy crossed the field beyond the tree-bridge, up to their hips in overgrown lawn. An old barn sat abandoned a hundred yards away, a sunken ship upon the sea of grass. Once at the large wooden doors, Tim ordered Sheridan to kneel, which she did, and opened the latch holding the building shut. Musty hay smell greeted their arrival.
Inside, a cat bathed itself on a dirty pillow placed between colorful bottles, running its brown paw over caramel ears, the day’s lunch now a bony carcass on the floor. The cat stopped as they entered, training its dark blue eyes on the pair.
“Cookie!”
Cookie stood up and dropped to the floor, knocking a few of the bottles over. He padded across the dusty floor while Tim rushed over to the fallen glass, forgetting Sheridan. “My collection!”
Sheridan swept Cookie up in a bear hug. “Oh Cookie I missed you so much!” She planted a wet kiss atop the cat’s head.
“That’s not his name.”
Sheridan paused. “What?”
“His name isn’t ‘Cookie.’ It’s Patch.”
“No, it’s Cookie.”
“Where’s his collar then?”
Sheridan felt along Cookie’s neck, searching for the blue leather and safety bell, but found only neck fluff. Cookie mewled and wiggled out of her grip, delicately navigating the shards of glass. The light creeping in reflected off the pieces, sending sepia spots around the barn wall. Sheridan hung her head, eyeing the open door.
Tim stood after gathering his glass in a neat pile on the ground. He headed back to Sheridan and started shoving her towards a ladder in the back corner.
“You’re staying here.”
Sheridan’s boots dug into the ground, slowing her advance. “No.”
“You can’t leave. Just stay up there, please.”
“I want to go home!”
“Don’t yell!” Tim pressed the flat of the knife to her side, forcing her onto the ladder.
Sheridan gazed to the hayloft above, spider webs crisscrossing the rungs, hinting at their hosts waiting in the corners. On the third rung, a wolf spider stalked invisible prey before disappearing. A sliver of evening sun penetrated the dark roof through the loft entrance, illuminating the dust population above, emphasizing the darkness of the space. Her joints locked. All of Tim’s pushing couldn’t force her up. His blade trembled against her.
“Go!”
Bleary-eyed, Sheridan sucked in a breath and wailed. It echoed off the walls, vibrated the hanging dust, and stretched out to fill the barn’s interior. Tim jumped back and covered his ears, nicking his lobe.
“Stop it, stop!”
He lunged for her but she turned, kicking him square in his gut. She drew another breath and continued the barrage of noise. Cookie dove off the pillow and made a beeline for Sheridan’s legs. He leapt onto Sheridan’s back and slid his claws out to hold on, which only made her scream louder. She thrashed about, trying to shake the cat off, and when she did he went flying into Tim’s face.
He flung Cookie off him, sending the cat skittering away, and threw his knife down in a fit of frustration.
Sheridan stopped and stared as he began to cry, his mouth turning into a pout.
“Fine, leave, I don’t care!”
He stomped toward the broken glass and kicked it, the edges scraping up his skin. He sniffled.
Sheridan put her hands on her hips and crinkled her eyebrows. “I’m telling my—”
“No!” Tim whipped around and held out his hands, pleading. “Please! Please don’t tell!” His voice broke between breaths. “I don’t want them to take me away again. Every time I go have fun, and I get in trouble for leaving the house, and Nancy gets mad and sends me to a new house with new parents and no friends.” Now, he started to sob. “I don’t want new parents, I want the old ones!”
Tim curled up and sobbed into the floor for a good while before calming down. The sky outside had turned blood red, illuminating the world with the day’s final glow, reaching through the slats of the barn, warming Sheridan’s boots. Cookie strode up to the poor boy and rested his furry chin on his back, purring. Except for the cat’s soothing purr and the thumping heart in her ears, silence reigned around them.
Sheridan knelt next to Cookie, who gazed at her with his ocean eyes. She spoke, her voice hoarse. “Listen up, Patch. This is Tim, and he’s going to be your new friend. He needs lots of help, because Nancy is mean and he doesn’t have any friends, so that’s going to be your job. You watch him, okay?”
Patch blinked. So it was settled.
Sheridan rose and headed out the door, back across the grassy sea, over the bridge, through the woods, and back to her home, where her mother scolded her for being out so late. She could barely stay awake in school the next day, and as soon as she got home, she headed towards the woods, back to the barn. With a heave she opened the door to no Tim, no Patch. The shards from the day before still lay piled on the ground, a small object placed on top. Sheridan inched closer to see a leather blue collar with a silver bell, ‘Cookie’ inscribed on the dangling nametag. In front of the pile, written in the dirt, was a message: “Thank you.”
They would make good company.
Grace Beatty is a senior at Capital Area School for the Arts Charter School.
