The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) by Shea Berkley

that’s one of the reason’s Mom never got worked up when I was out late. She knew I could find my way home no matter where I was. In reality, she probably just never cared if I ever showed up or not.
    Unwanted memories begin to swirl through my mind; I push them away and say the very last thing I want to. “Let me help.”
    In no time, I’m out the door with an old rucksack slung over my shoulder, carrying a “snack” that weighs ten pounds. Grandma offers me the ATV again, but I refuse. I’ve been walking my whole life. No point in changing now. I stick to the trail that runs behind the back fence for as long as I can, keeping a wary eye on the woods.
    I don’t remember why I developed an aversion to nature. All I know is that something happened to me when I was younger, a memory I can’t recall that makes the event all the scarier, especially since it scared not only me, but Mom. I’ve buried the memory so deep, it’s impossible to bring it forth. Only the recollection of rough bark and strange whispers hovers near the edge of my thoughts.
    I’d refuse to go to the park with Mom because there were so many trees. I’d beg her to move us to the city instead of the next hick town on her list so I could avoid trees altogether, but she would always stare out the window and shake her head. “You can’t go to the city.”
    When I hit my teens and asked again, and once again she said, “You can’t go to the city,” I heard what she was really saying.
    I didn’t belong in the city.
    She thought I was too stupid or too ugly or too something. Whatever it was that made me different, I knew I couldn’t control it. It was inbred in me, and Mom liked it less than I did.
    I stop where the trail to pasture five starts. The sun is setting, and the wind is rattling the leaves. I don’t think about what I’m about to do; I dive in.
    Shadows lengthen as my feet carry me deeper and deeper into the woods. Once I pass through the gate, the trees begin to move, swaying in an invisible wind—a wind I can’t feel. Cold sweat prickles my skin. I stretch out my stride and break into a run, zipping past the trees so fast, I can’t feel anything but the rush of air against my skin, or hear anything but the whooshing it makes in my ears.
    I break into the small meadow, my vision shattering into a thousand bright lights, and I bend to catch my breath. I’ve never run that fast. Ever. It felt surreal.
    A hand slaps my back, and I nearly fall over.
    “Whoa there, Dylan,” Grandpa says, catching me so I don’t fall. He looks back from where I came, and tension fills his voice. “Is anyone following you? Did you see someone?”
    I climb out of my fear and blink back the haze that’s surrounding me. “No, everything’s okay.” Straightening, I shrug out of the backpack and hold out the bag. “Grandma sent me to give you a snack.”
    He takes the bag. “No time to eat. We’ve work to do. Ever shot a gun before?”
    I snap my gaze to his. What he’s saying crashes in on me. “No. Isn’t that illegal without a permit, or something?”
    “My property, my rules.” He gestures toward a tight cluster of trees. “I’ve dug the foxhole over there. Prime spot.”
    Foxhole? Why do I get the feeling it’s not connected to a furry little guy’s den?
    “Come on.” He grabs my arm, leaving me no choice but to follow.
    “I’m thinking with these trees at our back, we’re good.” As he jumps down, I can only stare at the massive hole he’s dug. His dog is checking the place out and on seeing me, his ears prick up, and he scooches into the corner, whining. The last thing I want is to deal with a crazy Grandpa and a crazy dog. I wish he’d leave.
    As if he can read my mind, the dog jumps out of the hole and trots away.
    “Scooter!” Grandpa yells. “Where’re you going, boy?
    The dog stops, looks back, and then heads into the small cluster of older sheep.
    Grandpa eyes me. “I don’t think my dog likes