30
“Ralph.”
It was the night watchman, running up to him.
“Yes?” Ralph jumped from his truck. The sun had yet to rise, and his truck was the only one in the lot, except for the watchman’s. The cook hadn’t even shown up yet. Ralph had found sleep impossible.
“Another one of the boys got out.”
Ralph felt his heart constrict.
“Which one?”
“Dennis Owen.”
“Where—”
“He took my keys. This time I know it happened. I woke up, and the back door was open and my key ring had been moved.”
Ralph ran out the back door. Small shoe prints were still visible in the dew-frosted grass. They led directly into the brambly woods. He followed them until the prints were lost in the trees.
Dennis was heading directly toward the ocean.
Ralph ran back to the center. “How long ago?” he asked the night watchman, his throat aching.
“I dunno. Could have been hours.”
“I’m going after him,” Ralph said.
“You want me to tell the boss?”
But the custodian was gone, jumping in his truck and barreling back out of the gates, down the mountain road.
The watchman felt tired, and hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble. Martha hadn’t blamed him for the other boys, but for some reason, he felt sure she would blame him for this one.
The sun was just peeking above the trees when Dennis made it through the woods.
For the first time since Martha had come, Dennis felt at peace. He had made the right choice. It was better to die out here than to die in the center. He knew now he was going to die, one way or the other. At least this way, Ralph could quit the center and leave, and he could have a good life. He would remember Dennis. It was a good plan, Dennis thought.
He walked onto a road covered with sand. There were cliffs to his right, and in front of him was a dazzling scene he could never have imagined.
The ocean.
For a minute, Dennis had no words, not even for himself. Never had he thought anything could be so beautiful. The waves rose and spun in a strange harmony with each other, crashing against the shore. He could smell the wet sand. He could feel the force of the waves.
Dennis breathed deeply. He thought of all the homes he had been in before Brightwood, and of the day he had met Ralph. Now here he was. He would die in something beautiful.
His institutional shoes were covered with burrs, his gray pants smeared with mud and fir needles. Thorns had caught his hands. He crossed the road, marveling at how the wind tugged at his pants. He reachedthe white sand and stumbled over it, gaining his footing. He looked at the ocean and began to walk toward it. There was no hesitation in him.
The sea stretched on for eternity. Soon he would be part of that eternity.
There was the sound of a familiar engine in the distance. He turned to see Ralph’s truck racing down the road behind him.
Oh, Ralph, Dennis thought. You shouldn’t have come.
The truck came to a screeching stop. Ralph flung open the door. And Dennis began to run.
Constable Roberts came as soon as he got the call. The custodian was soaking wet and covered with sand, shivering on the bench in the store. He held the boy’s wet shirt in his hands. His eyes, catching the constable’s, said one thing:This is your fault. And mine.
