Free Boy on the Edge by Fridrik Erlings Page A

and a sharp shovel in his hands. He cut one clod of manure and threw it in the wheelbarrow.
    “There,” he said, and handed the shovel to John. “Keep doing that till there’s no shit left in there. And when that’s done, there’s the other shed to be cleaned out.”
    Then he walked out and drove away in his red pickup in a cloud of dust.
    John cut one clod after the other until he had filled the wheelbarrow. Then he pushed it over the threshold across a plank and emptied it on the heap behind the barn. When he came back inside, he glanced at Henry in the doorway but said nothing.
    John was already sweating, the back of his T-shirt drenched. Suddenly he turned around and gave Henry a sharp look and thrust his chin forward.
    “What do you want?” he asked brusquely.
    For a brief moment Henry was dumbstruck, for he hadn’t decided on his words, hadn’t found a way to say the things he wanted to say. So he said nothing, kept his mouth firmly shut, but his mind was spinning like mad, searching for the right words, for this was an important moment. And he knew he had to seize it.
    “Are you deaf?”
    Henry shook his head.
    “You live in the cowshed, right?”
    Henry nodded. He almost smiled. But he knew how his smile could be misunderstood as a mocking scowl, so he held back and bit on his lip.
    “Then you’re lost,” John said. “These are the sheep sheds.”
    He continued to shovel the shit and chuck the large chunks into the wheelbarrow.
    Henry felt that this was a beginning of a conversation, of a kind. If he could only come up with some reply, something easy, then John might perhaps continue talking, and he would have time to think of something else. The most important thing was to say something, anything, and not let the silence draw on for too long.
    Then suddenly he had an amusing thought. But how to put it into words, so John would understand the joke, was another matter.
    “I fed them,” he said.
    John looked up. “You fed who?”
    Henry pointed with his chin at the empty sheep shed. “Them,” he said.
    John looked at him pensively for a moment with his green eyes, perhaps wondering if he was retarded. Then he smirked and threw back his long black hair with a quick jerk.
    “Feed them less next time,” he said, and kept on working.
    Henry stood still in the doorway and couldn’t help but smile. John had actually understood the joke. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he just stood there for a while, with his hands deep in his pockets, a broad grin on his face.
    Somehow the sheep shit didn’t stink nearly as bad as before.
    He couldn’t fall asleep that night, wondering how his life would have turned out if he’d been like John. How easily he would have laughed off every opponent, how lightly he would have taken every insult, like it was nothing at all; how he would have enjoyed being the cool guy, shooting out short, sharp sentences that would make everyone gasp with admiration or shut up for good. How sweet to have been admired by the pretty boys, loved by the girls. How different everything would have been.
    He lay still for a long time, staring into the darkness around him, stroking his thick short fingers lightly across his ugly face.
    He was no John, and he never would be. But perhaps John might become a friend. If only he could find a way to make that happen. How happy he would be, having a friend like John. Just thinking about it made him feel good, made him feel strong, worthy.
    Right before he fell asleep he wondered why John had been sent to this place. Was he a criminal of some sort, a thief perhaps? He could imagine John as a Prince of Thieves. And he was relieved that the week in the Boiler Room had not broken John’s spirit: he had obviously just decided to play along, feign obedience to avoid further punishment.
    Henry smiled in the darkness, firmly resolved to try again to make contact with John as soon as possible. After all, today had not been that bad; he had made