By a Thread by Jennifer Estep

spoiled brat who took his father for granted.
    Fletcher looked at me. His green eyes were as bright as the leaves on the spring trees, while his walnut-colored hair blended in with the rest of the landscape, despite the silver threads that glinted here and there in his thick locks. He wore his usual blue work clothes, along with a pair of sturdy boots, and carried a backpack that was even bigger and heavier than mine.
    â€œI told you. We’re looking for wild strawberries. Ain’t nothing better than wild strawberry preserves on a hot buttermilk biscuit. I’ll get Jo-Jo to teach you how to make them both.”
    He swung the tin pail he’d brought along, as if to confirm his story. “Come on. It’s not too much farther now to the strawberry patch.”
    He set off through the trees,and I fell in step behind him, taking care to watch where I was going so I wouldn’t trip on a rock or put my foot in a hole hidden by leaves.
    I’d been living with Fletcher for several months now, and he often brought me into the forest to look for herbs, pick berries, or skin the bark off trees. Fletcher had lived in the mountains all his life, and he had a keen interest in natural folk remedies, like putting honey on burns or making natural teas and salves from barks and berries to fight colds and coughs. The last time we’d gone hiking, he’d shown me how to use a spiderweb to pack a wound and slow the bleeding in case I didn’t have anything else on hand to use as a bandage.
    It was a neat idea, but one I doubted I’d ever use. Even though Fletcher was training me to be an assassin like he was, I didn’t think I’d ever be that desperate. Besides, most folks that Fletcher got paid to kill lived in big fancy mansions in Northtown, not out in the woods. Anyway, I was going to be a good assassin, just as good as Fletcher was as the Tin Man. I wasn’t ever going to be taken by surprise or put in a situation I couldn’t handle. It was a vow I’d made to myself after my family had been murdered. I was always going to be in control from now on, and Fletcher was going to teach me how. That was the whole reason I wanted to be an assassin in the first place—so that no one would ever be able to hurt me again.
    We kept walking, winding our way up the mountain. Eventually, we came to a fork in the trail. Fletcher pointed to the path that veered off to the right.
    â€œThe strawberry patch is about a mile up that way. You can’t miss it. Why don’t you go on ahead? This old man has to answer the call of mother nature. Too much coffee this morning.” Fletcher gave me a sheepish grin.“I’ll catch up to you in a few minutes.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Fletcher moved off into the trees, and I turned and started walking up the trail, enjoying the shades of green, brown, and gray that streaked the landscape. Still, despite the peace and quiet, something about our hike was bothering me, some nagging little thing that I couldn’t put my finger on. I kept thinking about the dented tin pail swinging from Fletcher’s brown, speckled hand. It took me ten minutes of walking, but eventually I realized what was wrong.
    â€œBut it’s too early for strawberries,” I said to the trees around me. “It’s only April. Strawberries aren’t really in season until the summer, May at the very earliest, especially the ones out here in the wild.”
    I frowned, wondering why Fletcher would bring me up here to pick strawberries that weren’t even ripe yet. Then I realized something else—I hadn’t heard a whisper of movement behind me. No branches cracking, no twigs snapping, no leaves crunching underfoot. I hadn’t been walking all that fast, and Fletcher should have caught up to me by now. So where was he? Could he have gotten into some sort of trouble? Maybe stumbled and twisted his ankle? But if he’d done that, then why wasn’t he