The Year of the Storm by John Mantooth

Please.”
    I started to tear the top part. He lunged at me, but I kept it away from him, stepping up on his bed. “Answer the question.”
    I wanted to curse myself for what I was doing. I’d come because I wanted a friend, but I was making an enemy, and now I was too proud to stop. “Answer me or I rip it to shreds.”
    â€œMy dad and I lived here years ago. He knows Jake’s family and yours. I’m not sure about Ronnie’s.”
    â€œWhat he say about my old man?”
    Seth shook his head.
    I began to rip.
    â€œStop! He didn’t say nothing. He said he drank a lot. That was all.”
    Suddenly, I felt like laughing. “Well, he got that right.”
    Seth shot me a withering look. “Put it down.”
    â€œWhy’s it so important? What’s so great about a dumb painting? Even if you did paint it.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t understand.”
    â€œOf course I wouldn’t. My daddy’s a drunk, and I don’t know how it feels to be you. Jesus, man. I came over here because I wanted to be a friend, but I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t want one.” I dropped the painting on the bed, feeling suddenly deflated, like my life was useless and I should probably just go back to Jake, plead for mercy, and live out my days in these woods, being a damn drunk just like my father.
    I stepped off the bed, taking my time to be sure that I knocked over his stacks of books, scattering them across the floor. “Standing up for you that day was a mistake.”
    I was all the way back out to the den before I heard his voice.
    â€œWalter. Wait.”
    I stopped. I was still angry, but I learned a valuable lesson that day. Anger can’t hold a candle to loneliness.
    â€”
    H e said he wanted to show me something, and when I saw it, I would understand about the painting.
    I couldn’t imagine what it would be, but I felt bad for threatening to rip the painting, so I agreed.
    He led me outside and back into the deepest part of the woods, where Jake and Ronnie and me brought some girls last summer, telling them scary stories about the woods so that they’d squeal and hug us tight. It was spooky back here, something about the trees. Their shadows seemed to linger and spread out across the ground until you couldn’t really tell what was shadow and what wasn’t.
    We walked slowly as a storm began to build in the sky above us. We said nothing, plowing through the densest parts of the woods. As we walked, it became clear that there was a buried past here, a community worn to rubble by time and fire and weather. A rotting fence tapered away into nothing. A stone wall that might have once been the front of a house. A pile of old junk, rusted and broken beneath smoke-charred branches. There was probably more too, but the kudzu and creepers overran everything, burying the old places as sure as if they’d been sunk into the ground.
    Seth moved with an assurance that made me jealous. How was it possible that I had lived in these woods my entire life and felt confused and disoriented, while he knew exactly where he was going?
    I glanced up at the darkening sky. “You sure this is a good idea? It’s looking pretty ugly.”
    â€œIt’s right here,” he said. “And the storm is a good thing. Makes it easier.”
    â€œEasier? What are you talking about?”
    He ignored me. “If you ever try to find it without me and you see the little cabin, you know you’ve gone too far.”
    Cabin? I saw nothing but trees and shadows. At the time, I had no idea the “little cabin” he mentioned would be the place where my life would change forever.
    â€œWhat exactly are we looking for?” I asked.
    He bent down, clearing away some of the foliage. I saw a solid square block of concrete. There was an opening, a round hatch, no more than three feet in diameter, built into the top. He lifted it, revealing the arms