Free Runaway Twin by Peg Kehret

stomped on. Uneasily, I peered in the car’s shattered window. The vehicle was not occupied. Either the driver and any passengers had managed to climb out and walk away or the car had been empty when it was lifted up somewhere else and deposited here.
    The building where the old man had listened to his radio was only a heap of broken boards. Its tin roof was rolled back like the pop-top on a can of tuna, and pieces of pink insulation looked like mounds of cotton candy. Was the man buried under the rubble? Might he still be alive?
    With my heart pounding, I approached what was left of the building. “Hello?” I called. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”
    Nobody answered. I looked around. Where was everyone? Some of the houses on the other side of the road must have been occupied when the tornado hit. Were there survivors? Staying clear of a downed power line, I walked toward the houses, past a flowered sofa, an old refrigerator, and a baby’s high chair that had three legs snapped off.
    As I approached the closest house, I heard a hissing sound. I quickly looked around for a snake. Were there rattlers or other poisonous snakes in this part of the state?
    I didn’t see a snake, but the hissing continued. Then I smelled an odd odor and realized I heard propane leaking from a broken line. I’d noticed a white propane tank near every house, and wondered why they weren’t painted green so they’d blend in with the landscape. Fearing an explosion, I skirted that house and approached what looked like a huge pile of kindling that had pieces of furniture mixed in with the wood.
    A piece of paper fluttered down and landed in the dirt beside me. I picked it up. It was a child’s drawing: a family of smiling stick figures with a bright sun overhead. SUZY was printed in wobbly block letters on the bottom of the drawing.
    Where was Suzy now? What had happened to the people who lived in these houses? Where was June, and her aunt? I folded the drawing and put it in my pocket. The still air made it feel like a ghost town, and I shivered in spite of the heat.
    â€œHello?” I called. “Is anyone here?” As I zigzagged through the splintered wood and rain-soaked contents of the former houses, I heard a sound.
    I stopped, listening. It came again, a faint cry. “Help.”
    I went toward the voice. “I hear you,” I called. “I’m coming! Keep talking so I can find you.”
    â€œHere,” said the voice. “I’m under here.”
    The voice came from beneath a heap of rubble, all that remained of one of the houses. I began to dig, throwing pieces of wallboard and roof shingles off to the side, trying to reach the voice.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said. “I’ll get you out.”
    â€œHurry,” replied the voice. It sounded like a child.
    When I tried to pry a piece of siding loose, I got a splinter under one of my fingernails. I tried to pull the splinter out with my teeth, but it broke off. Ignoring the soreness, I kept working toward the voice.
    After I pulled away a large chunk of ceiling tile, I was startled to see the soft brown eyes of a cow looking at me. I had uncovered a large oil painting that, except for being dirty, did not appear to be damaged. I lifted the painting, shook the dirt off, and set it aside. If the owners of this home returned, they would be surprised to find their cow painting in such good condition when the rest of the house was demolished.
    Beneath where the painting had been, I glimpsed hair. Human hair. I was looking at the back of someone’s head. No wonder the voice seemed so muffled. The person was lying facedown in the dirt. I removed more debris until the whole head was uncovered.
    â€œI see you!” I said. “Can you turn your head? You’ll be able to breath better if you can turn.”
    The head turned slowly and I saw the profile of Randy, the youngest of the three boys who had tried