The next morning, the sun rose soft and slow over Alcolu. The sawmill's whistle groaned awake before the birds did. Ikrist Raya stood on the porch, whittling a stick into a pretend pencil, lost in thought. The smell of pine and dust drifted on the breeze, mixing with the distant hammer of the mill.
Amie chased Jonas around the yard, their giggles cutting through the steady grind of grown-up work and worry. Inside, their mother stirred a pot of grits while humming a hymn under her breath. Life, for a moment, was ordinary — the kind of ordinary Ikrist would later wish could last forever.
By midday, the heat was thick enough to make the air feel heavy in his chest. Ikrist wiped sweat from his brow as he helped his father mend a broken fence post by the chicken coop. He watched the sun cut through the trees, rays dancing on the dirt like flickers of gold. His father worked in silence, grunting when the hammer missed its mark.
"Hold it steady, Krist," his father said, voice rough but not unkind.
Ikrist pressed the plank tighter. He liked working with his hands — he liked the idea that something he touched could hold together, at least for a while.
Suddenly, a voice drifted over the fence. It was Martha Long, one of their neighbors. She called out, breathless, her bonnet slipping off her head.
"Anna! Where's Anna?" she shouted.
Ikrist's mother stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Martha? What's wrong?"
"It's the Binnicker girl and that Thames child — Betty June and Mary Emma. Ain't nobody seen 'em since yesterday afternoon. Their mamas been hollerin' all over town. The sheriff's out lookin'. You seen 'em, Ikrist?"
Ikrist stiffened. He glanced at his father, whose hammer froze in mid-air.
"Yes'm. Yesterday," Ikrist said, voice barely above a whisper. "They asked me 'bout maypops. I told 'em where to find some."
Martha's eyes narrowed — not cruel yet, but hungry for a reason, a story, someone to blame.
"Where was that?"
"Down by the big ditch, ma'am. By the fence near the tracks."
Martha nodded slowly. Her eyes darted from Ikrist to his mother. "They didn't come 'round here after that?"
"No, ma'am," Anna Raya said sharply, stepping forward as if she could block her son with her body. "Krist came right back with Amie. Ain't no children here but mine."
Martha clucked her tongue, fussed with her bonnet, and left without another word, her shoes kicking up small clouds of dust.
Ikrist felt his father's stare like a hammer in his chest. "Stay close to this yard, Krist. You hear me? Don't step a toe past that gate."
"Yes, sir."
His mother pulled him inside, fussing at him while brushing dust from his shoulders as if that could make him disappear from trouble.
"You didn't do nothin', I know you didn't," she said. Her hands were warm on his cheeks. "But you listen — you say nothin' more to no one 'less I'm standin' right there with you. Do you hear me?"
Ikrist nodded. He did hear her — but outside the window, the town was already buzzing. He could feel it — the heat in the air was thicker now, but it wasn't just the sun. It was eyes, whispers, suspicion hanging like a storm cloud that no prayer could blow away.
Hours later, Sheriff Hammond himself came riding up the dirt road in his dusty black car, the deputy's hat visible in the back seat. Ikrist stood behind his mother as they stepped out onto the porch. He could feel Amie's small hand gripping the hem of his shirt.
The sheriff was a large man with sweat darkening the brim of his hat. He didn't waste time with hellos.
"Mrs. Raya. Boy." He tipped his hat stiffly, but his eyes were cold. "We heard he spoke with the girls yesterday."
"Yes, Sheriff," Anna said, her voice firm but polite. "Ikrist told 'em where to find some maypops. Then he came home."
"You come with us, boy," the sheriff said, not asking but telling. "We got questions need answerin' down at the station."
Anna stepped forward, blocking Ikrist with her whole body this time. "Sheriff, he's a child. I'll come too."
"Ma'am, we only need the boy." The deputy stepped around her, broad hands already reaching.
Ikrist felt his father's voice, low and strained from behind him. "He's done nothin'. Let him be."
But the sheriff just shook his head. "If he's got nothin' to hide, he'll be back home by supper."
Ikrist wanted to speak — to say he hadn't done anything, that he'd just told them where the flowers grew — but the words stuck like a pebble in his throat. He felt his mother's hand slip from his shoulder as the deputy took his arm.
Amie's voice cracked the still air, small but sharp: "Mama! Where's Krist goin'?"
Ikrist turned back, trying to smile at her, but the deputy tugged him forward. The old car door creaked open. He ducked his head inside, the leather seat warm from the sun. The door slammed behind him like the click of a lock in a dream.
As the car rolled away, Ikrist watched his mother's face grow smaller in the rear window — a blur of apron, worry, and love. Amie ran after the car until the dust swallowed her up.
He pressed his hand to the glass. For the first time, a flicker of fear touched his chest — not just for himself, but for the story he could feel brewing around him. A story he didn't write, but that would soon write him instead.
The sheriff's voice cut through the rattling engine: "Don't worry, boy. This'll be quick — if you tell the truth."
Ikrist lowered his eyes to his scuffed boots. The truth was simple. He just didn't know if anyone here wanted to hear it.