A Fly in Amber

Dove shaded her eyes against the sun and surveyed the street. Walnut looked much like it did twenty-six years ago. Once kids played in the street and parents didn’t give it a second thought. No one does that anywhere now.

Ruth came stamping down the back steps into her father’s kitchen, her hair frizzed out from her normally tight bun, the top button of her housecoat sticking up alone above the unironed lace collar. “Dad, have you been upstairs?”

Billy Callahan, thirteen years old, stood quite intently on the edge of the bridge, staring straight down between his sneakers at the water rushing underneath. Dirty Pig Creek was running pretty low this season; he could see the tops of large rocks jutting through the torrent. He never felt the rain pitter-pattering his dark headRead more…