Free Spirit’s Key by Edith Cohn Page A

can of chicken noodle in the mess of boxes.
    Dad sips the spoonful, then turns his head into the pillows.
    â€œYou have to eat more,” I insist.
    He groans but takes another sip.
    â€œI don’t want you to get dehydrated. I better get Dr. Wade.” I stand up.
    Dad shakes his head and moans no.
    â€œAre you sure you’re sick because of the gift?”
    Dad nods.
    It doesn’t make sense. “What about Mr. Selnick? Why is he sick? What does he have to do with us?”
    â€œIt’s my fault. I scared him.”
    â€œBeing scared can’t make you sick,” I argue.
    â€œBeing scared is the worst sickness.” Dad coughs like talking hurts him. “We must use our gift to provide courage. It’s the Holden way.”
    I don’t understand, but Dad looks tired. And I have a more pressing question. “Can you see ghosts with the gift? Did you ever see Mom?”
    â€œSpirit,” Dad warns.
    â€œDad, I’m trying to understand. I want to help us.”
    â€œI know you do, and you will. You’ll help us all.”
    â€œHow? How will I help?”
    â€œI had a dream, and the Greats told me you would.” Dad has a coughing fit.
    I get excited. “The Greats? They contacted you, too?”
    But Dad is still coughing. He shakes his head, letting me know he can’t talk anymore. I tuck him into the blankets, and in seconds his eyes flutter closed and his breathing gets deep. I place a glass of water and the bowl of soup by his bed, and quietly step outside. I want to ask him what he dreamed and if he had a vision. I want to know more about the Greats and the message they sent. But until Dad gets better, I think I have to find my own answers.
    *   *   *
    The minute I’m off the front porch, I touch Sky’s dog tag. He appears, and all my fears wash away. He’s got his pheasant in his mouth. So I toss it, and he leaps into the air. The joy seems to burst off him like a firecracker. I’m so happy I could burst, too. When it’s me and Sky together, I can’t worry.
    He dashes back to me with the pheasant like he can’t wait to get to me. I love that about Sky. Every time we’re apart, even if it’s just for the length of a pheasant throw, he acts like we’ve been separated for years. Maybe to him we have. Time seems to do something impossible when I’m with him. When I got home from the beach last night, it was so late I couldn’t believe it. Dad would’ve been upset if he’d been awake to realize.
    I could keep throwing the pheasant all afternoon, but Sky stops and gives me his Follow me stare. So I follow. And follow some more. We walk the whole island until we get to the dune where he is buried. He stands on top of his grave, staring at the ocean. The wind blows back his ears, making him look like a flag on a hill. Instead of a grave marker, I got Sky himself. Or his ghost anyway.
    The pheasant I placed here is gone. I assume it’s in my hand now—that Sky’s ghost picked it up on the way out of his grave.
    Whooping wowzers!
    Suddenly, I know how to turn the kibble into magic.
    I run off the dune, but Sky doesn’t want to follow. He stands on his grave still and strong, ears back, chest up, his legs straight and unmoving. Stay, he commands with his stance.
    â€œCome, boy. I have a surprise.”
    He doesn’t budge.
    â€œWe’ll be right back to this spot in a minute. I promise.”
    Sky continues to stand on his grave, asking me to stay.
    â€œAre you trying to tell me your grave is special?”
    Sky doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move from his spot.
    â€œI get it, buddy, but we have to go home for the kibble. Let’s go!”
    Yet Sky still doesn’t want to come.
    So I leave him. I stop every now and then and look back, like he does for me. I do this until finally he follows.
    *   *   *
    At home I race to retrieve the dog