Free Where I Belong by Mary Downing Hahn Page B

falls under his old shirt. His beard is littered with cookie crumbs. I wonder how old he is. Hundreds of years, maybe. Thousands, even. He’s been guarding the woods since the age of druids and knights.
    I lean back against a tree. The leaves move and rustle high over my head, hiding the sky. The sun splashes down through the spaces that open and shut every time the breeze shifts. My eyelids grow heavy. It’s easier to sleep than to stay awake.
    When I wake up, the Green Man is gone and the shadows are long. They creep across the ground toward me. The sun’s rays are parallel with the ground. It’s dinnertime. I pack up my drawing supplies and head back to the other world, real to some but not to me.

TEN
    T HE NEXT WEEK , Shea and I take some boards from a construction site and drag them into the woods. I rig up the pulley and Shea helps me get the boards into the tree. With her help, the work goes faster, but it takes two or three days of hoisting and hammering to build a platform for Shea just below mine. She decorates it with a mirror she found in somebody’s trash, a plastic tub with a tight lid, and a slightly crooked beach chair found by the side of the road. We take a few more milk crates from the convenience store so Shea can have her own place to keep stuff.
    While we’re arranging Shea’s things, a familiar voice calls hello. I look down, and there he is, the Green Man himself, grinning up at us. “My word,” he says, “you’ve built an addition just for my lady!”
    Shea and I scramble down from the tree, skinning our elbows and knees and sending the spiders scurrying.
    â€œIs it okay—do you approve?” I ask, suddenly fearful he might object to more nails being driven into his tree.
    â€œIt’s lovely,” he says. “Lady Shea needs some space of her own.”
    I want to hug him, but I hang back and watch Shea fling her arms around him and almost knock him down. “We missed you!” she cries.
    â€œWhoa,” he laughs. “Have pity on an old man.” He looks at me. “Any food, Master Doyle?”
    â€œI didn’t know you’d be here,” I say. “Shea and I were going to walk to the convenience store and buy lunch.”
    â€œAh, that’s fine, then.”
    The three us walk through the woods and follow the train tracks to Route 22. There’s a 7-Eleven a block down the road. An old, dingy one. Not the kind people from town use. A beat-up dump truck sits in the parking lot. Its owner is inside buying cigarettes and a six-pack of beer. As he walks out the door, I see the Green Man’s hand dart out as swift and smooth as a snake and lift a bottle from the six-pack. It disappears into his pocket without one jiggle or clink.
    The dump truck driver doesn’t notice, and neither does Shea. She’s already in the candy aisle looking for Kit Kats, her favorite. The Green Man strolls around the store, looking innocent. He doesn’t know I saw.
    I turn it over and over in my mind. The Green Man stole a bottle of beer. Why did he do it? He lives in the Green Wood. There’s nothing to buy there. Maybe he doesn’t understand how things are done outside the woods. After all, this isn’t his reality. Money doesn’t exist in his world.
    I take a deep breath. It’s okay. I won’t worry about it. The Green Man is not a thief. He can’t be. His laws are different from ours, that’s all.
    I show him the sandwiches in the refrigerated case. He picks ham and cheese. Shea chooses tuna salad. I take egg salad. Since Shea gets an allowance, she pays for the sandwiches, three cans of soda, and a big Kit Kat chocolate bar.
    The skinny guy at the cash register has been watching all of us since we came in. Maybe he saw the Green Man pocket the beer. He takes Shea’s money, but he doesn’t speak to us. Not even a “Thank you” or a “Have a nice day.”
    I look back