Free A Hollow Dream of Summer's End by Andrew van Wey Page A

didn't care, didn't even have time to notice. He pulled the ladder back up as quick as he could. Far below the flashlight cast long shadows at the base of the tree. And down there, skittering and rolling among the darkness and light, Mister Skitters squealed and slapped at its face as if stung by a dozen angry bees. It hissed at Aiden, a resentful shriek, child-like and vulgar.
    And then it ran off, skittering into the shadows, leaving the flashlight at the base of the tree. A fallen torch just out of reach. Above, only candles remained. An amber glow, and from within its warmth a boy sobbed.
     
    —
     
    Freddie spent a good twenty or thirty minutes crying. After that he went silent, moved off to the other side of the treehouse to lick his wounds and gather his thoughts. He said nothing to Aiden, no word of thanks or acknowledgement.
    Aiden tuned the radio through empty channels, thumbed through the iPad. Again, no signal on either.
    When Freddie returned all he said was: "You threw our only flashlight."
    "I tried to save you," Aiden replied.
    "But you threw away our only flashlight," he said again.
    "We've got this," Aiden said, holding up the iPad. "Better than nothing."
    Freddie snorted as if the idea was stupid, absurd. Still, he took the tablet and flicked it on, the white light filling the treehouse.
    "You're welcome," Aiden said when he passed off the glowing tablet.
    "What?"
    "For saving you. You're welcome."
    Freddie gave no reply, simply stared at the glowing screen as if it held an answer.
    He was right, Aiden thought. Throwing the flashlight had been a stupid idea. Yet Freddie hadn't thought of a better one. Aiden had taken initiative, as his coach said. Taken initiative and acted. All Freddie had done was piss himself and scream.
    "It's quiet," Aiden said. Again, Freddie gave no reply. "At least it'll be dawn soon."
    Aiden opened the hatch, stared into the darkness below. At some point the sprinklers had gone off. Thirty feet down the flashlight lay among the dirt at the base of the damp tree. It might as well have been thirty miles.
    "Think it'll come back?"
    "Of course," Freddie said. "It's waiting."
    "You sure?"
    "Yeah," Freddie answered, hand scratching inside the pocket of his hoodie. "Yeah, I'm sure."
    "How do you know?"
    "I just do."
    "We can wait it out," Aiden said. "The sun'll come up. My dad and Julie will come out. They'll help us."
    "Yeah, maybe," Freddie chuckled, his voice dripping with annoyance. "Like when they came out to save Brian. Oh, they didn't, did they?"
    "Maybe they didn't hear."
    "Or maybe it got them."
    Aiden opened his mouth to respond, but found himself unable to come up with anything. The words were heavy, thick.
    What if it had gotten them?
    It was an idea so horrible it hadn't even occurred to him. What if his dad and Julie were the meals, and they were the desserts? Maybe that's why the lights were still on, why he hadn't seen them since the game of laser tag.
    "Don't say that," Aiden said. "Please, don't say that."
    Freddie shrugged and stared off at a dark corner, lost in thought.
    Maybe it had gotten to them first, Aiden thought. His mind went back to that idea again and again. What if Julie and his dad were off in some horrible black cocoon, acid flowing through their veins as that horrible thing turned them from family into a feast?
    No, he thought. His dad was smart, strong, resourceful. He'd seen him knock a ball out of the park once a few years back before his work became the only thing he ever did. Back when they played catch until the sun set. Back when they lived in the same house, and Julie was just a woman that answered the phone at an office.
    But that was a different life, a time when they were a team and not three fractured pieces.
    "What time is it?" Aiden asked again.
    "Five," Freddie said, turning the iPad on and off.
    "Can I see it?"
    "Why?"
    "’Cause I want to see it. Why's it matter?"
    "It matters," Freddie said slowly, "because I don't want you to throw