Free Bandit by Molly Brodak

completed, we had a little free time again before bedtime, in the living room. Free time, compared to work, became painful for me. In this restful and idyllic place, there was a fire, and a basket full of wooden toys, marbles, and puzzles. There was the Bible, or stacks of the Amish newspaper we could read by the oil lamps. And worst of all, there was The Dad, in his rocking chair, talking or reading a story. The littler kids clustered around him on the plain braided rug in different stages of exhaustion and stupor. The Dad was tall and wiry, with a neat beard and a straw hat—exactly as you are imagining.
    Not having many friends in my life, I hadn’t known other kids’ dads. So after dinner, I’d sit by myself playing Shoot the Moon or completing a puzzle, and watch The Dad occasionally. The other kids grouped up into friendships and cliques, chatting about TV, music, or school—things I had instantly forgotten about upon arrival at camp. They weren’t afraid to ask The Dad questions. I wanted to ask him questions but not in front of the other kids. And he was never alone. Mostly I just wanted to talk to The Dad, to have him hear me and to listen to him say what I imagined would be intensely wise things. I could see that this was what dads were for. The other kids seemed to know this, naturally. But I stayed where I was, watching the kids talk to him and feeling both jealous and annoyed with what they said; often they’d make jokes, asking him if he had heard of MTV or ever eaten at Burger King, never done being delighted with shock that The Dad had never experienced any of the dumb things central to their limited lives. He played along, and let the small kids crawl into his lap. Here was my chance to interact with a real dad, and all I could do was sit and stare.
    Back on the first day we’d arrived, The Dad told us there would be two events we had to look forward to: the animal auction and the creek walk. It was nearing the midpoint of summer and the auction was approaching. Kids craved a break from the work routines and chattered about the upcoming auction at night. Then one morning, gathered in the barn, The Dad led us off the farm for the first time, walking together on a scorching, dusty dirt road to the livestock auction house. It was far andthe walking was tiresome. High road cuts through the old hills, revealing roots and striations of mud, and some horses or cows near their fences were the only things to notice. Occasionally a horse and buggy came by, and even less frequently a car, for which The Dad would cover his mouth and nose to block the dust cloud it raised as it passed. This gesture also looked like a sign of disgust, and most of the kids copied the move, so it looked like the group was choking back puke or blocking a sick smell. I was up ahead a little bit and looked back to see them like that, The Dad and all the little kids like a gaggle of geese, and felt for the first time like there was something cultish about family, something dangerous. Somehow it could reduce you. I felt myself giving up a little then. I hadn’t bonded with them or The Dad or anyone, as much as I wanted to. I was old enough then to start to wonder if there was something wrong with me.
    We shuffled through the auction hall quickly, staying only a few minutes in the main auction arena, winding through the halls lined with animals in cages, then we turned to walk back to the farm.
    At least the evening was cool in shadows and dusk light. I kept myself with the group this time. They started to sing, and I sang with them, looking down or straight ahead. The sky turned violet and pink and our voices seemed too loud among the empty hills. I imagined splitting from the group and running away for good. Then I thought about my mom.
Why can’t I just join along and be happy,
I wondered.
    The rest of the summer on the farm went on slow and weird. I wanted the work to be difficult for me, but it wasn’t.It was the other thing, the