Free Until She Comes Home by Lori Roy

enough to make every breath hard to find.
    “I’m not going on the street,” Arie whispers, one hand pressed to her chest to slow her heart. “Someone’s sure to see us out there.”
    The garage scratches their bare shoulders and arms. They should have thought to put on long sleeves. The air is always cooler when the sun sets, so they should have known. Arie shivers, partly because of the cold but mostly because of the dark.
    “Then I’ll search the street by myself.” Izzy talks a little too loudly, as if trying to fool herself and Arie into believing there is nothing to fear. “You check the alley,” she says, and begins to slide her feet, one after the other, toward the far end of the garage. “Nobody’ll see you back there. Be sure you kick all the bushes. We’ll meet here in fifteen minutes.”
    Arie waves at Izzy to come back. She wants to ask what will happen if she kicks a bush and accidentally kicks Elizabeth or their cat or something else entirely. But before Arie can ask, Izzy has disappeared around the side of Aunt Julia’s house. Another question Arie should have asked is how are they to know when fifteen minutes is up. Neither of them wears a watch, so how are they to know? One thing she is certain of—she won’t be kicking anything. She’ll walk to the end of the next block and back again. That’s not so far, and when she returns long before Izzy, Arie will lie and say she only just got back too.
    Stepping into the alley, Arie immediately drifts toward the middle. Even though the edges are more brightly lit, something or someone could hide along the edges. The center feels safer, like whatever might be hiding would have to jump out at her, giving her time to run for home. She continues walking, letting her eyes roll from left to right and, every few yards, checks behind her. It used to be, on a night like this, Arie would watch the dark sky for hours, hoping for a glimpse of that Russian rocket. She imagined it would look like a bolt of lightning, shooting from one end of the sky to the other. She stopped watching and stopped hoping the dog inside was alive when her teacher said the ship had fallen back to Earth. She forgets sometimes, on a night like tonight when the sky is especially dark, and still looks up, hoping to see that bright light.
    When she reaches the Obermires’ house, she stops walking. They don’t have a garage, and Arie can see between the houses all the way to the street. No sign of Izzy. She takes a few more steps, keeping her eyes on the space between the houses as long as she can. She’s going to watch the street until she can’t see it anymore and then she’s going to run as fast as she can all the way to the end of the next block. It doesn’t matter how tired she gets or how much her feet burn or her lungs ache. She won’t stop running until she’s standing back at Uncle Bill’s garage. Buckling up her fists, she dips her head, takes three long strides, and stops.
    He must have stepped out of the shadows hanging over the Richardsons’ garage and into the center of the alley because Arie would have seen him if he’d been there all along. He’s only a house and a half away. She would have seen him. She backs up a few feet and stops again when he lifts a hand. He holds it out like a stop sign and leans as if he’s talking to someone inside the garage. He straightens. He’s a solid shadow with arms and legs. He waves a hand like he’s swatting away a bug. He means for her to slip over to the side of the alley. He means for her to hide. He leans again, straightens again, and this time, touches a finger to his lips to silence her.
    Grandma would call this prairie grass. No one must mow back here. Mrs. Schofield died and Mr. Schofield doesn’t care about the overgrown grass. Arie parts the tall stalks and pushes her way through, wishing again she’d changed into slacks and long sleeves. She slides down the side of the garage and squats there. Her breath is too