Free Running Out of Night by Sharon Lovejoy Page A

by a crazy dog.
    My stomach knotted and growled so loud it sounded like it come from an animal. Hungry, tired, thirstin, and runnin out of night. No time to stop and eat. Some mess of trouble if the job weren’t done soon.
    I knelt beside the crick and filled my cupped hands with water again and again till my stomach swolled and wouldn’t hold another sip. I still hungered. Inside my pocket was the leathery dried wintergreen leaves. I toreoff a little wad of them and chawed. That first shock of mint made my mouth water. Then I chawed and chawed on them leaves to ease my hunger.
    I dipped my hand into the water, felt along the bottom of the crick like a raccoon lookin for crawdads, and lifted out two small, smooth stones for settin Zenobia’s eyes.
    I couldn’t put off what had to be done a minute longer. I crawled up the bank, found my markers, picked up my stick, and began breakin through the ground.
Thump, thump, thump
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    The flat rock worked like a hoe, cuttin through the soil and moundin it so’s I could scoop it with my bare hands onto the ground beside me. Sweat ran burnin into my eyes. My self got lost in the rhythm of the poundin, the scrapin of the stone, and the swoosh of the earth as I tossed it aside. Slowly, slowly, minute by minute, the hole got bigger and deeper.
    I stopped, leant on the stick, and looked up at the night sky. The thick whiteness of the Milk-Away spilt acrost the wide blackness. I searched out the Drinkin Gourd, and found the four bowl stars and the three in the handle pointin to the steadiness of the North Star—the star Zenobia once follered to find her free soil.
    “Mama, Grandpa, what a fine place to be. Down in a grave hole, and fair game for anyone huntin me. And now my friend will be buried here forever.” I brushed at a tear.
    The grave weren’t near as deep as the one Grandpa’d been put in, but I’d dug down so’s I stood waist deep. Idropped my stick and pushed myself up with my wobbledy arms, but the wall of the grave crumbled. Sand, small stones, rocks, and clumps of soil slipped right back where they’d just come from. Dirt covered my feet. I set back for a minute’s rest and leant against the side of the grave. The moon disappeared behind the trees, and darkness poured into the hole. Smells of damp earth, wet leaves, and skunk wrapped around me. A toad purred, and the owl, the owl, it shrieked once, took wing, and glided, like a death haint above me.
    Somethin slithered acrost my foot, and I clawed my way out of the grave hole and onto the ground. I lay there on my back, pantin, and closed my eyes. The sycamore leaves rustled loudly, and my skin prickled till the hairs on my head felt like they was stickin straight out. My eyes flew open and there, starin down from the tree, were a dark, shadowy ghost face with big, dark eyes.

Y ou can bewitch someone by pointing any sharp stick or cane at him
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    C ould the face have been a shape-shiftin trick of the shadows? I propped up on one arm, craned my neck so’s to see into the branches, but it, whatever it were, had vanished.
    I were scairt—scairt so deep inside—but I needed to stay, needed to finish what I started.
    The stars faded, and the first gray light of dawn sifted through the leaves and onto Zenobia. She needed buryin, and soon. My achin body wanted to stay restin, but my head told me it were time to get up and take care of my friend.
    I reached into my pocket and felt for my lucky buckeye.“I should’ve give this to you, Zenobia,” I said to nobody. “Don’t know how I’m goin to do this to you, girl. Bury you here, for forever.” Tears trickled down my face. There weren’t no shirkin this job. She needed to be brushed clean and set to rights like I did my grandpa in his pine box. She’d be laid out, hands folded over her chest. Then, the flat stones set onto her eyes, and a bunch of wildflowers tucked into her hands to keep her company. I dropped to my knees, straightened her raggedy skirt and her