Free Gray Skies by Brian Spangler Page A

were whole, a few of the circles in the dotted pattern were oblong, and torn along the bottom edges.
    “I know where we are.” She said under her breath. “You have to trust me.” Declan got to his feet. He snapped his head with a short nod as she gripped his hand. She led them off the path, away from the morse lines, and into a complete whiteout of fog. There were no morse lines; nothing, but the gray mist.
    Declan called out an objection to the direction that they were moving, but the sound of Harold and the boys thrummed from behind, growing louder. Declan’s hand became lighter in hers, while they entered the emptiness. Sammi’s heart filled and lifted, as Declan gave himself to her trust completely.
    After counting nearly forty long steps, Sammi stretched her arms out in front of her as far as she could reach. She steadied their pace until they slowed to a crawl. They were near the old theater; she had to be careful so that they wouldn’t run into the wall of the building. Fifty long steps from the morse line, fifty reaches of her legs, perpendicular to their daily path to and from school, and she’d found the building a year earlier, after following the mews of a cat. Sammi rubbed her head where she’d stepped headlong into the coarse wall so long ago. Shaking her head, amused, she felt the raised and tattered scar just under her hairline. After that, she’d visited the theater dozens of times, and knew the exact number of steps from the path to the entrance.
    When Sammi’s hand landed flat against the damp decay of brittle mortar and aged brick, they’d found the building. She picked at the red stone, letting bits of it break away, and fall to their feet. She pulverized the remains of a flat piece between her fingers; the powdery stone crumbled to dust without protest.
    “We’re here,” she exclaimed.
    “Where exactly is here ?” Declan asked. “Is it safe?”
    “This is where Socks came from,” she answered, pointing to the building. “It’s the old theater.” Declan held his hand up, and turned to listen. They could still hear Harold and the other boys, but their footsteps were distant. He cringed when Sammi touched the swelling bulb above his eye.
    “Oh, Declan, your eye is purple!”
    “I’m fine,” he breathed, and turned toward the building. With an eager smile, he added, “Want to go inside?” Sammi gave him a quick nod, and moved along to the wall, following it around until they found an opening. It was just a hole that might have once been a door, caved in by years of neglect. The dirt beneath their hands and knees was wet, but it wasn’t stony. Surprise caught her when she realized that it was actual dirt, not crumbling pavement, or crushed building stone. Sammi gripped a handful, and held it up to her nose, smiling. The dirt felt crisp, and soothing on her skin; it smelled earthy.
    “Ever seen anything like that before?” Declan asked, bringing his bloodied nose to her hand. He tried sniffing the dirt, but shook his head—his sense of smell had been crippled by the beating.
    “On the farming floors, yeah, but this is different,” she marveled.
    “It is, but let’s keep moving,” he answered, and passed her through the opening. Sammi lifted the earthy substance up once more, oddly delighted by the smell, and then met Declan inside.
    Once they were back on their feet, she stared in awe of the room and its size. Ragged openings stretched across the decorated ceiling, where the roof opened up, letting gray light bleed into the theater. Sammi wondered how many years the room had stayed closed off from the outside before the roofline finally ruptured. She watched the fog passing over the building like ancient clouds, yet none of the salty mist seemed to breach the openings; at least none that she could smell or taste.
    A terrible thought came to her then, haunting where Harold clubbed her. Could the boys have gotten on the roof? She wondered, but then dismissed the thought,