“It’sreallydeep,” he said proudly.
“So deep someone could fall into it and break a leg.” Not to mention it was just another thing she would have to repair when she got the house back.
“Aggie fell in, and she didn’t break any of her legs.”
“Is that right?” Lorna asked, her hands going to her hips. “Well, first of all, her name is Agnes. Second, her legs are so short they are nearly impossible to break.” She marched over to the shed and grabbed the shovel before Boy Genius got any more ideas.
“I forgot her name. Sorry, Aggie,” the boy said to the dog, and leaned down to pet her head. Agnes wiggled closer to him. Traitor.
“Where is your father?” Lorna demanded as she came back with the shovel.
“He’s at his job. Sometimes his job lets him come get me at school. But most of the time I ride the bus. I get off at the corner and I walk home and wait for my dad. Kenzie wanted me to come home with her one time, but Dad said I have to have permission.”
“Okay, well, that’s a lot of information I won’t necessarily retain,” Lorna said. “Second, you shouldn’t be digging deep holes for people to fall into and break their ankles.”
“Okay,” he said.
He was terribly agreeable, this sweaty, chubby kid. She studied him a moment. In her considered opinion, he was too young to be left alone. She felt something against her pant leg and glanced down. Agnes had at last acknowledged her, the one who bought squeaky dog toys and kibble that cost as much as caviar, and was licking the dirt she’d kicked onto her clothes.
The skin on Lorna’s neck began to tingle like it did when she felt she might scream. She was still holding the shovel, but instead of using it to fill the hole, she shoved the blade into the edge, filled the scoop, and hurled the dirt away. She did it again. And again.
She kicked off her shoes, hard, and they sailed across the yard. She could feel her hair fall out of the containment pins. She kept digging, fast and furious, tossing mounds of dirt, forgetting the kid, forgetting Agnes, forgetting everything but the rage that wanted to explode out of her head.
“Hey!”
She didn’t hear him at first, she was so intent on the hole.
“Hey!” the kid shouted again.
Lorna realized in a moment of horror how she must appear to the boy. He was probably frightened out of his wits. She paused, her mind racing around all the things she could say to ease any distress she’d caused. That was probably impossible—her chest was heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her back and chest had sweated through her clothes. Her pant leg was sticking to her skin.
“Do you think there’s treasure buried here?” he asked excitedly. “Because the Indians used to live here. They might have buried something!”
Lorna paused to consider it. She doubted there was treasure of any sort, but she and Kristen had buried a box of coins backhere once. “Maybe. We won’t know if we don’t dig.” She started digging again.
So did the kid, with his metal thingy. He didn’t last long. Neither did Agnes. And when Lorna finally gave up, her rage spent (for the moment—rage had a way of creeping back in when she least expected it), she dropped the shovel and fell onto her butt beside the kid. Her clothes were ruined. She was covered in sweat and dirt. And she wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened.
“Are you okay?” the kid asked.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’mfine.”
“Because you’re crying,” he said. “Wait!” He hopped up and ran to the back door that led from the main hall. He was back a moment later with a bottle of water and a metal box. He handed her the water bottle, then put down the box. She glanced at it—it was a first aid kit.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re crying,” he said again. He produced a small bottle of aspirin. He opened the lid and shook two into his grimy palm. He held them out to her. “I cry sometimes too, and my dad gives me these. He criesa lot.”
Weird. “I don’t need this, but okay,” she said, and took the two aspirin, washing them down with a grimace.
“Your hair is really big,” he said.
“I’m aware.”
“It’s like a superpower. Like Samson.”
Lorna snorted and took another swig of his water before wiping off the mouth of the bottle with the tiny bit of sleeve that had escaped sweat or dirt. “Not exactly,” she said.
“You have to believe,” the kid said. “That’s what my dad says.”
