Free Whisper in the Dark by Joseph Bruchac

a run. But while you’re not sure what to do you feel all antsy, as if nothing is quite right in the whole world.
    I know I’m using dumb examples, but that is how life is sometimes. Lots of little hassles can seem big unless you have something like a real threat to your continued existence to put things into perspective. Then you finally make up your mind and everything seems clearer, as if the sun finally came out again after a week of rainy skies.
    That was how it was with me when I made up my mind not to run away, but to find some way to confront whatever it was that was out there. But now that I’d made that decision, I had another problem. What exactly was I going to do?
    Roger wondered the same thing. I could tell by the way he looked at me, waiting for my brilliant solution. Which was not forthcoming.
    “Maddy,” Roger said, putting his hand up to his chin. “I’ve been wondering about somethin’. Do you think whoever or whatever it is would try to get to you in another way? They already got to Bootsie. Would they try to contact anyone else in your family?”
    “Aunt Lyssa,” I said. “Omigod!”
    I unzipped my hip pack, yanked out my phone, fumbled it open, and hit the numbers for Aunt Lyssa’s desk at the library. It rang four times, and then I heard her voice.
    “I’m not here or I’m on the other line. You can leave a message after—”
    I broke the connection and looked over at Roger.
    “Want to go there and check on her?” he said.
    I had the number for the taxi company where Mr. Patel worked stored in the memory. The cheerful voice of the dispatcher answered on the second ring.
    “This is Madeline Brown,” I said. “I am at the amphitheater on Riverwalk and I need a taxi.”
    “Hi, Madeline,” the familiar voice said. “Mrs. Jenkins here.”
    Mrs. Jenkins. I knew her voice, but that was all. You know how it is with those telephone voices you get to know. They belong to people you have called before for some business reason, but you’ve never met them in person.
    “Hi, Mrs. Jenkins,” I said.
    “So where you going today?”
    “Just to the library.”
    There was a pause on the other end. “Far be it from me to turn away business, Madeline, but it’d be faster for you to just walk there from where you are. All you have to do is walk through the tunnel.”
    NO. I almost yelled that into the phone. NOT the tunnel. But I controlled myself. “I, uh, I was out running and hurt my foot. Just a little. So I really need a taxi. Really.”
    “Not a problem,” Mrs. Jenkins chirped. “Patel, your pal, is the closest cab. He’ll be there in ten.”
    It was actually seven minutes. While we were waiting, I tried twice more to call Aunt Lyssa and got her voice mail each time. I didn’t bother to call back to the desk and see if they knew where she was. I’d be there myself in almost no time. I flipped my phone closed and stowed it back in my hip pack.
    Then Roger and I sat without talking, just waiting. I do a lot of talking, but there are some people I can be quiet around. Roger is one. Grama Delia is another. Her silences always say so much. At times when I am with her and we are both not talking, it is like she is teaching me by speaking mind to mind, not with words, but with emotions. I wished I could talk with Grama Delia now. She’d probably know just the right thing to tell me. But I knew that she wasn’t home. She wasn’t even in Rhode Island. And I had no idea what city in New Mexico she was in for the Native American Elders’ Conference this week.
    I closed my eyes, picturing Grama Delia’s confident, compassionate face. She has seen so much inher life, and every line in her face is a sign of knowledge she has earned. She says that we Indians can talk to each other when we are far away. We just need to use our minds and really focus. Telephone and e-mail and all the modern ways of communicating have made it harder for the old telepathy to work, but it is still possible. Reach