Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (no david read aloud TXT) 📗

own father. He was sorry about this, and it was suddenly important that he dig deeper when he returned.

With time to spare and sudden resolve, Kit began to search for some paper, but there was none to be found. Ahead, on the shoulder of the road, there was litter. It would have to do.

He climbed from the Schooner and fetched a paper bag that had become caught in a fence rail. It was dry, not too dirty, but would nonetheless shock his father more, perhaps, than anything Kit chose to write on it.

He took it back to the Schooner, smoothed it out on the top of the wooden trunk that was bolted next to the driver’s seat, and, kneeling down, took his pen from his pocket and began to write. Dear Father, he began, for Dad was somehow not quite right.

You’ll think I’m a coward and I suppose you’re right. But I could not have stood in front of you and explained why I was leaving. Some things are very clear to me, but you already know about them: that you have always been unkind to Holly; that you have mistreated her, abused her, in fact; that I have been a terrible brother; that you lied to us about Holly’s disfigurement; that we both, you and I, ought to be ashamed. Then there are plenty of things that aren’t so clear. Why isn’t there a single picture of my mother in our entire house? Why have I always been satisfied with knowing so little about anything—anything—except what you have thought important?

You can see why I did not wait to speak with you before leaving. Everything is very unclear to me. One minute I think I know what’s going on, and the next minute I’m lost. Giving Holly the money she needed to go her own way was the right thing to do. I’m sure about that. (In a way, you must be relieved that she’s gone.) But since then I’ve done other things that amaze me. I feel as if I’ve been crossed with someone else, as if we—this other someone and I—have merged. You’ve never been able to put yourself in anyone else’s shoes, but surely you know what it feels like to be torn in two directions. The things you’ve done prove how troubled you are. So I’m hoping you’ll be able to imagine my own confusion.

Considering everything, though, I know there’s a good chance you’re furious with me. That you feel we’ve betrayed you, Holly in one way and I in another. Perhaps I would feel that way too, in your shoes. But that’s the whole point. I am no longer in your shoes and am now certain that I don’t ever want to be. Because of Holly? I can hear you. I can actually hear you saying this. Yes, because of Holly. A few days ago I was so content with myself. Now I am not. Not at all. I need a bit of time and distance. When I’ve sorted things out, I’ll come home.

It’s true that I couldn’t stay in that house after hearing how you’ve treated Holly, but it’s also true that I want to help you. While I’m gone, I hope you’ll face the fact that you need help. And when I come home maybe you’ll let me see that you get it.

He signed it Kit, folded it up as neatly as he could, and stuck it in the visor, ready for an envelope. He would have to remember to find a stamp too, and a mailbox, first thing. Feeling better now, he started up the Schooner and carefully got back under way.

Kit didn’t know, in the early days after leaving home, that these were to be among the most important miles he would ever travel. He didn’t yet know much about humility, though he was quickly learning, and never imagined that he’d come to value so pedestrian an attitude as that. He had never before felt the world curve ahead as it did for him then, urging him down its imperceptible slope with nameless promises and endless possibilities. He had never had a home so entirely his own, and he looked forward to inaugurating it soon with a meal and a long night’s sleep.

As twilight approached, Kit decided to moor the Schooner at the next likely spot that presented itself. Somewhere near a gas station, he hoped, for he still felt some trepidation about the Schooner’s own facilities and furthermore had not yet filled its water tank. Somewhere near a grocery store, too, since the only food he had on board was a half-eaten Snickers bar and a six-pack of ginger ale he’d bought at a gas station that morning. Somewhere civilized, although he wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. Perhaps somewhere quiet and lovely, ringed with pastures, where people wouldn’t mind giving him some advice and a place to park.

Maybe I’ll stop in this next town, he said to himself as he passed Belle Haven’s outer limits. But before he’d gone much farther down the road, he came upon a sign mounted on a sawhorse straddling a wide, deserted intersection, DETOUR WEST TO RANDALL, it commanded in orange and black. LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY. In smaller letters painted by hand underneath was the cryptic message: New borehole at the Spring Run Extension. As of 5/14, migrating hot spot SE of Jackson’s silo. Stay on the road. Pass at your own risk.

Kit idled at the intersection, pondering the sign, the only man-made thing in sight save the road itself and the furrows in the fields. The last town he’d passed had been as charmless as any he’d yet seen. Randall could turn out to be even worse. And he liked the name Belle Haven. It sounded like a place that won hearts easily and would never turn anyone away. Stronger than anything, however, was the lure of the sign up ahead. As he drove slowly on along the empty road toward Belle Haven,