A Shiloh Christmas by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

“Listen.”
    When it comes again, Shiloh makes a beeline for the shed. David and me look at each other. Shiloh’s standing there, ears alert, eyes fixed on the narrow door.
    Now a couple of sobs come from the shed. Sound like a girl—could be either Ruthie or Rachel, can’t tell. There’s a slide lock on the door.
    â€œRachel?” I call.
    The crying stops right off. Silence.
    â€œHey, Rachel?” I say again.
    And then a soft voice says, “Who’s out there?”
    â€œMe. Marty Preston. David Howard’s here too. And my dog. I wanted to interview you for our assignment. Why are you in there?”
    No answer.
    â€œYou want out?” says David, and without waiting any longer, he slides the bolt and opens the door.
    Rachel’s standing there, nose all red and runny, and all she says is, “Wait. I have to use the bathroom.” And she makes a run for the house.
    We stare at each other.
    â€œWhat the heck . . . ?” says David.
    â€œYou suppose she and Ruthie were playing a game and Ruthie forgot she was in there?” I say, trying to figure it out.
    We look around the shed. Everything in order. Garden tools on hooks, hose all coiled up, baskets of hand tools—trowels and hammers and screwdrivers . . . Rachel could probably have pounded one of those aluminum walls down if she had to. But where is everybody?
    A couple minutes later, Rachel comes out the back door, and she goes straight into the shed.
    â€œLock the door again,” she says. “Hurry!”

ten
    â€œW HAT?” I SAY .
    But there’s panic in her voice. “Hurry!” she says again. “Before my dad gets back.”
    â€œHe put you in here?” David asks, holding the door fast as she tries to close it.
    â€œPlease!” Rachel begs. “I’ll really get in trouble if you don’t.”
    â€œI just wanted to do that assignment,” I tell her again.
    â€œWe’ll do it at school. At lunchtime, maybe, okay? Please, just close the door and lock it.”
    We close the door.
    â€œWhere’s your ma and Ruthie?” I call out.
    â€œAt the doctor. I’m being punished. You really need to leave,” she tells us. “Lock the door.”
    And her voice is so panicky that we slide the bolt. Butwe don’t ride off. No way are we going to leave her here like this. What if there was another fire in the neighborhood and she couldn’t get out? The preacher would do this to his kid?
    There’s no house close on either side, but we get on our bikes and take them back to the stand of trees where we can’t be seen. And we sit there on a fallen tree trunk, our eyes on that shed. I got a finger around Shiloh’s collar and tell him to sit.
    It’s ten minutes before the preacher’s car shows up. We hear the car door slam. Then the front door of the house. But nobody comes out.
    The anger inside me is churning around like a lunch gone bad.
    â€œIf I was in that shed, I’d be tearing the place down,” I tell David, my jaws tight.
    â€œI’d call the police when I got out,” David whispers back.
    â€œShe don’t even have a jacket, and it’s really cold in there. Could have got one when she went in the house, but then, I guess, he’d know she’d been out.”
    After a few more minutes, David says, “Think we should tell the police?”
    But just then the back door opens and the preacher comes down the steps. He walks out to the shed, hisback straight, arms down at his sides. You’d think he was in the army.
    â€œAre you ready to be obedient?” we hear him call to Rachel.
    I guess she don’t answer, because he says, “I’m waiting to unlock the door, Rachel.”
    And when she still don’t answer, either his heart or his curiosity makes him open the door. Rachel pushes past him like a soldier herself— won’t give him so much as a