Free An Early Winter by Marion Dane Bauer

light. There is no electric hookup at this campground, but they always used to keep a gas lantern tucked away in the cupboard, and it must be dark enough inside to need it now.
    As soon as they both have something to eat, Granddad can drive back to Sheldon, back to the house. Once the grownups are through with the fit they're sure to throw—funny how quickly people can go from scared to angry—Tim will tell them the truth. And the truth is that he's ready to go home. Back to Minneapolis. Back with his mother and with Paul.
    Granddad doesn't need him here anymore. If anything is clear, that is.
    Besides, Granddad has no one to blame but himself. Even if he does have Alzheimer's, he can't use that as an excuse for the way he treated his son. Franklin has been gone for years!
    Tim shakes himself. Why is he standing out here, getting colder and colder? And what is he afraid of, anyway? Certainly not a forgetful old man.
    But when he steps onto the bottom step and puts his hand on the doorknob, just lays his palm on the cold metal, he doesn't even try to turn it. Because he knows.
    His grandfather isn't in there. The camper is too quiet. The windows are too dark. Even the wind that had been rushing about a moment before is suddenly too still. But since there is nothing else to do, he turns the handle anyway. Or tries to turn it.
    The door is locked.
    Tim steps back down to the uneven ground and scans the darkening campground. Empty. He and his grandfather are the only campers here. They haven't seen another soul since they left Melvin's.
    Where else could Granddad have gone? He was walking ahead, following the lake. Even he couldn't get lost in the woods following the perimeter of the lake.
    Tim executes a slow circle, searching the campground again. His gaze falls on the outhouse in the center of the loop of campsites, a rustic building designed to blend in with the landscape. Except for the smell. That never quite "blends."
    Tim smiles at the thought, and the cold certainty of disaster that has been clutching at his throat loosens its hold. The outhouse. That's where Granddad is, of course. He'll be back any moment now. All Tim has to do is wait. He sinks slowly to the camper steps, uncertain whether he has chosen to sit or if his knees have simply given way.
    What would he have done if Granddad had truly been gone? If he'd found himself alone in this forest? He won't even think about that. He can't.
    A pale egg-shaped moon rises from behind the trees on the other side of the lake. It lightens the surrounding sky, glimmers on the surface of the water. But beneath the trees surrounding the camper, the shadows only grow more dark.
    Tim scuffs at the ground with the heel of his wet sneaker. His shoes aren't sodden any longer, but they are certainly far from dry. His clothes adhere to his skin with a clammy grip. The night air is damp, too, so that the persistent wind is little use in drying them.
    Why is the old man taking so long?
    Old man.
He's never used such language about his grandfather before. Not even in his mind. But then he has never felt about him the way he feels today.
    How could Granddad have treated his own son that way?
    And why is he taking so long in the outhouse?
    After another long minute, Tim gets up and heads for the privy. He'll knock on the door, tell him to hurry. If he, Tim, could only drive—if he even had a clue about driving, especially a truck with a stick shift—he would take himself home and leave Granddad dreaming in the stink house. That's what the two of them have always called it, the stink house.
    But as he approaches the privy, his steps grow increasingly leaden. Is it possible that he is wrong about his grandfather being there, too?
    He stops in front of the outhouse door, closes his eyes, pleads under his breath. "Please. Let him be here." He doesn't know who he is talking to, really. Whoever it is out there who invented Alzheimer's disease?
    Tim knows, even before the door