The Last Days of Summer by Vanessa Ronan

eyes and finally turned to him, her whole little face glowed gold. That’s how he remembers it. Gold. And he gave her each dandelion one by one instead of all together, and told her to make a wish, and blow it out, and there were dandelion seeds scattered all over her quilt, all across her room. That’s how he likes to think of Lizzie. That’s how, inside, he remembers her. Back before. Back when she still thought wishes came true. Back when he thought they just might, too.
    Hands buried deep in the soil, Jasper tugs at another weed, fingers blindly entwining with its roots. The rich smell of the earth around him distracts, and it takes Jasper a while to realize he is being watched. Later, thinking back, he can’t quite say what first alerted him. Maybe she moved. Or a twig snapped. Or a breath was slightly louder than the rest or a little out of place, out of pace with the others. Or maybe he just looked up. But when he did see Doe Eyes standing uncertainly by the edge of the porch, half masked by its shade, he was not surprised. Couldn’t quite identify the feeling, but it was like a part of him knew she was watching. Felt her watching. Expected it all along.
    The girl smiles when their eyes meet. Like that’s what she’s been waiting for. For him to look up. Simple as that. Too much understanding for a little girl’s eyes. Bobby’s eyes, as quick to judge, yet so much of Lizzie there too: the brown skin and thin limbs, and dirty blonde hair. For a second, squinting into the sun, Jasper thinks it is Lizzie, standing there, watching him. The Lizzie of his memories. Eyes refocusing, he sits back on his heels. Wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his dirt-streaked hand, leaving a small trail of soil where his knuckles rubbed.
    ‘I want to show you something.’ She turns and hurries around further into the shady side of the house.
    Slowly, Jasper rises. Knees stiff. Back stiff from bending over the flowerbeds so long. He glances at the house, tall and silent and weathered beside him. Lace curtains drawn, like no one’s home, but windows opened wide. He drops the trowel onto the flowerbed, where it lands
with a soft thud, and, without thinking, wipes the earth from his hands onto his jeans. Realizes the stains caused only as his hands come up clean. But it’s too late by then.
    Doe Eyes’ head peeks back around the corner of the house. ‘Come on!’ Then disappears again.
    He follows.
    It’s not far. Just out behind the house and round the other side of the chicken coop. He stops when she does. Not sure what he’s supposed to be looking at, he waits for her to speak. Her eyes are glowing. So blue. So bright in the shade of the coop, and her dark blonde hair seems like prairie grass, burned some cross of caramel and brown, glowing golden toffee as it blows in the breeze. But she doesn’t speak, just stands there, smiling. Then, impatient, ‘Don’t you see it?’
    He glances across the prairie again. Across the gold. Looks back to the house. At the coop, red paint peeling. At the girl. ‘See what?’
    She stamps her foot. A childish gesture. Impatient and rash. And he feels better seeing it, seeing the child in her so clear. Still, it’s been years since he was around a child. Or a woman. Still seems strange to keep their company. To keep anyone’s company outside wrought-iron bars and tall electric fences.
    ‘There! Don’t you see it?’ Voice nearing a whine, Doe Eyes points to the back of the coop.
    Once-red paint weathered nearly brown now peels off it in long, thick strips. Flakes off in tiny chips. Shady this side, the far side from the house, the house shadow stretched long and thin across the back lawn, like a finger reaching towards them. He can hear the hens inside the
coop, clucking. The soft ruffle of their feathers. Can smell their shit. Their soiled straw. His eyes glint, pupils dilate, as they adjust to the shadows of the light behind the shed. And then he sees it. There, attached to