John Brandon - Citrus County

“Here to pray?”

“If you’d like,” said the girl.

“Why don’t you hand over the bag?”

The girl mustered a smile, picking at a barrette.

“I said hand it over.”

“It’s stuff for us to hang out.”

“I’ll hang out with it first,” Shelby said. “Then you can hang out with it. We’ll see which one of us the stuff likes better.”

The girl was about to say something, but Shelby snatched the bag.

“I’ve got something for you too,” Shelby said. “Wait here.”

Shelby went to the fridge and pulled out a container of grits. She found a serving spoon. When she returned to the front door, the girl hadn’t moved. Her lips were stretched shut over her braces. Her arms hung at her sides, hands resting loosely in her pockets. Shelby drew the door all the way open. She dug the spoon into the grits and flung some at the girl, who was too nervous to flinch. The grits slapped against the girl’s forehead. Shelby had never done anything so mean. She heaped up another spoonful and the girl squealed, backing up.

“Watch the step.” Shelby unloaded, the congealed grits thudding against the girl’s chest, tumbling inside her blouse.

And then the girl stopped backpedaling, suddenly defiant. She closed her eyes and turned her face up, as if daring Shelby.

“I get it,” Shelby said. “You’re being persecuted. You’re enduring whatever trials you have to endure.”

Shelby readied her spoon and cocked her arm. She felt low and childish, but that was how she needed to feel. She needed to not be felt sorry for. She thwacked the girl across the bridge of the nose with more grits and then slammed the door. Shelby believed she deserved to act however she wanted. Every hour she had a different soul, and she wasn’t going to resist any of them.

Toby didn’t know how long Uncle Neal would be out of the house. He rushed from room to room — tissues, bandages, lip balm. Toby had brought trip after trip of supplies down to the bunker beforehand, but there was a lot he hadn’t thought of. He’d rushed into the whole thing, he saw, but his mind would catch up with itself. If he could keep eating dinner and keep getting up in the morning and leaving the house, his mind would catch up.

He looked for something other than water to give Kaley to drink, something with flavor, but he didn’t want to give her soda and make her that much more unmanageable. He saw her wide, flushed face and her snot-glazed chin every time he closed his eyes. He had decided never to speak to her, never to utter a word down in the bunker. She would settle down. She would see that Toby was a stone and she would settle down.

Toby had to filch supplies from his uncle a little at a time. He took part of a watermelon, and a stack of paper bowls with a picture on the plastic wrap of people having a picnic. Toby needed more buckets but couldn’t find any. There were likely a few out in the shed, but the shed was locked up and Toby wasn’t allowed into it.

There were two FBI agents, both women. They didn’t show up until Kaley had been gone almost a week. They’d been on another case, they explained. Their department had been slashed to the bone. They weren’t going to be the primaries for Kaley’s case. They were there to help out, conduct some interviews, get the police whatever resources they needed.

The agents had spoken to Shelby’s father out in the woods that morning, and now they had Shelby cornered in the house. One of the agents was young. She wore bright sets of jewelry and had tangled, shoulder-length hair. The other was in her forties and had a pixie-cut. The agents interviewed Shelby in the living room. The one with the tangled hair found the remote control and muted the TV. Shelby tried not to look at the screen. It was a cooking program in which ingredients were tracked from their origin at the farm, were monitored as they were shipped to retail stores or co-ops, then finally made their way to plates.

“Maybe you’ve got some coffee,” the agent with the pixie-cut said.

“No,” Shelby answered. “We’ve got beer or water.”

“Everybody calls this the real Florida,” the tangly-haired one said. “I don’t understand an expression like that. Is part of the state imaginary?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Shelby answered.

“And they call themselves crackers. Where I’m from, that’s what black people call white people when they’re angry.”

On TV, an old man was explaining cheese. For some reason, he dropped a package of saltines on the ground and mashed them with his moccasin.

“We’ve only got a couple questions.” The pixie-cut agent reached down and retied her boot, never losing eye contact with Shelby. She was performing her part of their routine. “Does your father have any friends that come around?” the agent asked. “Friends of the family? Drinking buddies?”

“Not down here in Florida.”

“Not one friend?”

“Not that comes around.”

“Does Kaley have a babysitter?”

“You’re looking at her.”

“Any prank calls?”

Shelby shook her head. Prank calls seemed like a thing of the distant past, like cotton gins. She reached and pushed the power button on the remote, blanking the TV.

“Did anything of Kaley’s go missing?”

“No.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“I know how many of everything she has and it’s all in there.”

“You know exactly how many shirts and socks she has?”

Shelby wondered if these were the same questions they’d asked her father. She said, “The piles in the drawers look the same, and I know because I go in the drawers every morning when I get my sister dressed. When I used to.”

After her sister had gone missing, Shelby had inventoried Kaley’s room, putting things in their place. The cops who’d come to investigate had been annoyed that Shelby’d disturbed the scene, but Shelby knew they wouldn’t have found anything. They were morons. So were these FBI agents. They all asked the same questions. They were all hoping for miracles.

“Should you be writing this down?” Shelby asked.

The pixie-cut agent winked. “I’d rather put it in my head than in a notepad. I could lose a notepad.”

“You’ve never in your life lost your head?” asked the tangly-haired one.

“Why was the sliding door unlocked?” the pixie-cut one asked Shelby.

“I guess we were feeling carefree,” she said. “Is that an answer? We’d been out in the backyard earlier, filling the birdfeeder. It was me that forgot to lock the door. My dad told me not to forget to lock it and I forgot.”

“Carefree, what a thing to be,” said the tangly-haired one.

Shelby wanted to say something cutting to the agents.

“Why do these women keep having all these children?” the pixie-cut agent asked, to no one in particular. “Nothing good comes of it. Why do they keep having them and having them?”

The tangly-haired one raised her eyebrows, an expression that meant she was only the messenger. “Because that’s what everybody else is doing, that’s why.”

Shelby picked her way through the woods at the rear of her house. Toby had PE sixth period and Shelby knew where he went during PE, over by the oversized air conditioning units in back of the chorus room. He always went to the far side and sat against the wall by himself. And there he was. He was reliable. He was where he was supposed to be. Shelby neared the fence, coming out of the woods, and Toby was sitting straight-legged, not more than a yell away from her. Shelby didn’t want to make noise. She waved her arm a few times and Toby saw her. He stared at first, like she was a deer that had wandered out of the woods, but then he knew it was her and he walked over toward the fence. The air was still. As Toby got closer, Shelby could hear the dry grass crunching under his sneakers. Here he was. Nothing had happened to him. He was still Toby.