wood and was pulled up, inch by inch, until my head broke the surface and hands tugged under my arms. My fingers dug at the mud and I coughed and choked, tears hot on my face. I rolled away from the puddle, puking out all the dark rainwater.
On my back, I opened my eyes. The sky was blue as the last of the clouds faded. Birdsong pinged and rang all around, and I could hear the slow drip of water off the pine needles.
And there was Tiergan Fitch, leaning against his staff with his mouth pinched and eyes worried. “The rain washes too many secrets away,” he said. “It isn’t good where they collect.”
He crouched beside me and helped me sit up. I didn’t even mind his warm hands on my back.
THE BONE-TENDER
by Brenna Yovanoff
So I said before, in my introduction to “Date with a Dragon Slayer,” that I would lie to you and tell you I wrote that story. Well, guess what. I also wrote this one. —Maggie
Magical powers frighten me. This is a story about that. No matter how benevolent or valuable a superpower seems, I can’t help thinking that this is not going to end well for someone. Which is probably why I write a lot of horror stories. —Brenna
W hen Brandon Rowe was eight years old, he hit a squirrel with a rock and broke its back. I know because I was standing on the other side of the fence, watching.
After he went inside, I climbed into his backyard and crouched over the squirrel. I petted it. Its fur was soft and felt like the collar on my mom’s winter coat.
When I carried it home wrapped in my shirt, my mom told me not to touch it, it was dirty and I’d get a bad disease. My sister Rosie, who was in eighth grade, helped me make a bed for it with a shoebox and some rags. When I picked the squirrel up to set it in the box, it looked at me with one shoe-black eye and made a noise like a rusty can opener, but it didn’t move. Rosie showed me how to give it water from a plastic dropper. Then she took me in the bathroom and made me wash my hands.
She said, “It might die tonight, okay? If that happens, don’t be scared. Just come get me.”
I was scared, though. The squirrel was little and soft. The room smelled like Dial soap, and I tried not to cry.
“Oh, Noah, don’t be sad. Things die from shock sometimes, is all.”
I spent all night lying on my floor next to the box and watching the squirrel breathe, putting my hands on its back, feeling the places where the bones didn’t line up. The squirrel twitched and shook. Then it stayed still.
I was seven. What did I know? In the morning the squirrel was still breathing, and when it climbed out of the box and whisked in circles around my room, I was the only one who wasn’t surprised.
. . .
When Brandon was twelve, he broke my best friend Milo’s pinky finger. We were down at the community pool, and Brandon pushed Milo off the diving board and jumped in after him, even though Milo was still splashing around like a drowning cat and couldn’t get out of the way.
Brandon crashed down on top of him, and when Milo struggled back up to the surface, the look on his face was all shock and white-lipped pain.
After Milo paddled awkwardly over to the side, we sat on the edge of pool and I studied the damage while Brandon stood over us, calling us a couple of whiny little gaywads for holding hands. I looked for guilt or pity in his face but didn’t see it. His grin was so wide it made me feel uneasy and like the world was a pretty out-of-control place. Milo’s hand was swelled-up, already turning purple.
“Hold still,” I said, and Milo nodded and squeezed his eyes shut.
“What are you going to do?” he whispered. His face was so pale he looked gray.
“Nothing. Just hold still.”
The hardest part was setting the broken ends back together. Milo kept his eyes closed, swaying a little on the edge of the pool. I held his hand between both of mine and waited for the rush of electricity that would mean it was working.
“What a couple of
On my back, I opened my eyes. The sky was blue as the last of the clouds faded. Birdsong pinged and rang all around, and I could hear the slow drip of water off the pine needles.
And there was Tiergan Fitch, leaning against his staff with his mouth pinched and eyes worried. “The rain washes too many secrets away,” he said. “It isn’t good where they collect.”
He crouched beside me and helped me sit up. I didn’t even mind his warm hands on my back.
THE BONE-TENDER
by Brenna Yovanoff
So I said before, in my introduction to “Date with a Dragon Slayer,” that I would lie to you and tell you I wrote that story. Well, guess what. I also wrote this one. —Maggie
Magical powers frighten me. This is a story about that. No matter how benevolent or valuable a superpower seems, I can’t help thinking that this is not going to end well for someone. Which is probably why I write a lot of horror stories. —Brenna
W hen Brandon Rowe was eight years old, he hit a squirrel with a rock and broke its back. I know because I was standing on the other side of the fence, watching.
After he went inside, I climbed into his backyard and crouched over the squirrel. I petted it. Its fur was soft and felt like the collar on my mom’s winter coat.
When I carried it home wrapped in my shirt, my mom told me not to touch it, it was dirty and I’d get a bad disease. My sister Rosie, who was in eighth grade, helped me make a bed for it with a shoebox and some rags. When I picked the squirrel up to set it in the box, it looked at me with one shoe-black eye and made a noise like a rusty can opener, but it didn’t move. Rosie showed me how to give it water from a plastic dropper. Then she took me in the bathroom and made me wash my hands.
She said, “It might die tonight, okay? If that happens, don’t be scared. Just come get me.”
I was scared, though. The squirrel was little and soft. The room smelled like Dial soap, and I tried not to cry.
“Oh, Noah, don’t be sad. Things die from shock sometimes, is all.”
I spent all night lying on my floor next to the box and watching the squirrel breathe, putting my hands on its back, feeling the places where the bones didn’t line up. The squirrel twitched and shook. Then it stayed still.
I was seven. What did I know? In the morning the squirrel was still breathing, and when it climbed out of the box and whisked in circles around my room, I was the only one who wasn’t surprised.
. . .
When Brandon was twelve, he broke my best friend Milo’s pinky finger. We were down at the community pool, and Brandon pushed Milo off the diving board and jumped in after him, even though Milo was still splashing around like a drowning cat and couldn’t get out of the way.
Brandon crashed down on top of him, and when Milo struggled back up to the surface, the look on his face was all shock and white-lipped pain.
After Milo paddled awkwardly over to the side, we sat on the edge of pool and I studied the damage while Brandon stood over us, calling us a couple of whiny little gaywads for holding hands. I looked for guilt or pity in his face but didn’t see it. His grin was so wide it made me feel uneasy and like the world was a pretty out-of-control place. Milo’s hand was swelled-up, already turning purple.
“Hold still,” I said, and Milo nodded and squeezed his eyes shut.
“What are you going to do?” he whispered. His face was so pale he looked gray.
“Nothing. Just hold still.”
The hardest part was setting the broken ends back together. Milo kept his eyes closed, swaying a little on the edge of the pool. I held his hand between both of mine and waited for the rush of electricity that would mean it was working.
“What a couple of
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