Free Dismember by Daniel Pyle Page B

it became almost indistinguishable from the rest of the forest floor, though Dave could still see it clearly where it hit the road and make out the spot on the other side where it continued.
    He’d parked the truck just downhill from that point, and though it seemed the boy had still not spotted it—had, in fact, strayed in the opposite direction—Dave saw the sunlight reflecting off the windshield and just a hint of blue from the hood. He touched Georgie’s shoulder and steered him in the right direction, like a shepherd with a single lamb. In a lot of ways, he supposed that was exactly what a daddy was supposed to be.
    They walked through the last stretch of forest side by side, Dave’s footsteps hardly louder than the rustle of pine needles beneath them, the boy’s sounding like a slow applause as his damaged sole continued its clapping.
    They reached the overgrown road. Dave didn’t see the boy speed up, but he heard it. Clap, pause, clap , became clap clap clap . And then the boy was running.
    He ran uphill—his first mistake—and stayed on the road, opting for a clear path ahead rather than the possibility of cover, which made sense to an extent but was, in all the ways that mattered, very dumb. Dave was more ashamed than upset. He supposed he needed to understand that, despite Georgie having always loved the outdoors, he hadn’t had a chance to grow up in them yet. Dave had a lot to teach him.
    Although the boy was graceful in some regards, he was a gangly runner, all legs and arms and flailing elbows. Dave barely had to do more than walk to catch up with the scrambling boy. Just a little bit of movement, but enough to restart the throbbing in his face and eye. Damn bitch , he thought, glad he’d gutted her, wondering how he could ever have thought she’d be an acceptable choice.
    Ahead, the road curved sharply, cut uphill through a grove of thick trees and led at last to the two cabins, which Dave had investigated only once on a rainy night that spring. From the place where he overtook Georgie and latched on to the back of his t-shirt, Dave couldn’t make out the two ruined homesteads, but they were up there, hidden in the trees, home now to only the birds, the bugs, and the burrowing animals camped out beneath the rubble.
    Georgie whipped around so furiously that a chunk of shirt almost ripped off in Dave’s hand, but the man twisted his fingers into the material until he had a good enough hold to make sure the kid wasn’t going anywhere. Dave saw the grass-covered stone on the road before the boy did and kicked it out of the way just as one of Georgie’s hands dipped in its general direction. Dave didn’t flip Georgie around, didn’t say anything, just turned back toward the truck and dragged the writhing child behind him.
    Out here in the open, the sun baked Dave’s head and face. He’d spent so long hiding in the shade, he’d almost forgotten it was summer. A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek, hung for a moment from the tip of his chin, and then fell to the dirt below. 
    The boy’s thrashing had almost stopped, which seemed strange to Dave. His fits of rebellion came in spurts. Throw a rock here, run away there, but never an all-out fight for his life. 
    Only after he’d pushed Georgie in through the passenger-side door and buckled him into his seat did Dave say calmly, “Doesn’t make any sense to run away, does it?” He pulled the belt tighter and wrapped it once all the way around the boy. Not exactly handcuffs, but it kept him from making any sudden moves, and that would have to do for now. Eventually, Dave knew, Georgie would settle down. He was a good boy. “I’d find you, son,” he said, liking the way that last word sounded. “I’ll always find you.”
    He slammed the door and circled around the front of the truck, looking once at the forest around them, not expecting to see anything or anyone, just looking, remembering. He doubted he’d ever return to this particular