Free The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein

ever work on a farm, Zack?”
    â€œNo. But I had this Old McDonald farm set once.”
    â€œWith plastic animals and such like that?”
    â€œYeah,” Zack said, immediately wondering why he felt compelled to tell this boy about his baby toys.
    Tell him about your G.I. Joes, too, why don’t you? Then he can make fun of you for playing with dolls just like all your other new neighbors.
    â€œI had me one of them toy farm sets, too,” Davy said. “I thought it was all kinds of swell. Did you have the tractor?”
    â€œYeah. I chased the cows with it.”
    â€œHey, that sounds neat. Chasing cows with a tractor? Sounds real neat. So you and your folks just moved in?”
    â€œYep. Last Monday.”
    â€œSwell. Not many cool kids live around here. Just a couple jerks. Didja meet Kyle Snertz yet?”
    â€œYeah. Kind of.”
    â€œWhat a dipstick. He can’t play baseball, neither. Swings that bat like a galdern girl.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œDoes he ever!”
    Davy flung his arms around in crazy circles like a blindfolded baboon swatting at a piñata.
    â€œHe’s all show and no blow!”
    â€œHe doesn’t scare you?”
    â€œSnotty Snertz? Heck no.”
    Zack spun around in circles, imitating Davy Wilcox imitating Snertz. Zipper sprang up on his hind legs and spun around in circles, too.
    When they saw that, the two boys started laughing.
    â€œDang! Even your dog swings better than Snertz!”
    Zack laughed even harder and realized he might’ve just found his first real friend.

That night, Clint Eberhart sought out the plumber.
    The one to do all the things I can’t do myself.
    Eberhart was slowly adjusting to his new “condition.” By day, he was vapor invisible to all except children with very vivid imaginations. By night, he could freely roam the earth in his former body and car. But in both instances his physical abilities were severely limited.
    In fact, he couldn’t do anything.
    He couldn’t eat.
    He couldn’t fight.
    All he could do was materialize, prowl in the shadows, and make noises.
    Of course, at night he could scare the pants off just about anybody. Why, he could give an old man with a chain saw a heart attack if he timed his fade-in just so.
    But if he wanted to take care of any unfinished business, Clint Eberhart would need a good pair of human hands.
    So he picked the plumber.
    Â 
    The pickup truck was parked on the soft shoulder of the highway near the crossroads.
    Billy O’Claire sat up front, staring at the blinking red light. Listening to the crickets. Swatting the mosquitoes nibbling at his neck. After a solid smack and a squish, he checked his watch.
    It was almost exactly the same time as it had been that night when he’d seen the motorcycle cop standing in the crossroads. Billy took a sip from a two-liter bottle of soda. He wanted to be wide awake when the mystery man reappeared.
    He knotted his eyes and stared straight ahead. “I double-dog dare you to show your face again!”
    Well, not his face. He hadn’t really shown it that first time, since the cop didn’t
have
a face. Billy wondered how he kept his sunglasses in place without a nose for them to sit on. He also wondered why he wore sunglasses in the middle of the night.
    Somebody pulled in behind Billy.
    He turned around, looked out his rear window. He didn’t see any headlights, but he could make out the shadowy silhouette of a wide-bodied convertible. None of his friends drove classic convertibles with tail fins.
    Goose bumps exploded on his arms. It felt like somebody was outside his truck looking in.
    Slowly, barely moving, Billy turned to his left.
    A man with slicked-back black hair was staring at him. Grinning.
    â€œHey there,” the man said, his voice raw and raspy.
    â€œWho are you?” Billy asked.
    â€œSomeone just passing through.”
    Billy looked into the guy’s eyes.