Instalment Twenty Four

We’ve been in every yard in three blocks of my house, every one of ‘em. Mapped ‘em out. Whose gotta pool, a trampoline, dog, apple tree, what fences are too hard to climb and what time people got home from work.

It was all on our map. We owned the neighbourhood, running free. It was ours to play in, to play with, as long as we stayed on our map we were safe. The map of our world. It was the best summer I ever had, except for one thing.

Our map had a hole, a big, blank, white hole. In the top right, were the compass should go. It was a house, a big one, with a bigger yard and an even bigger brick fence. It was dark and overgrown and we were all too afraid to go in there.

Until a Greek family moved in across the street, with their kid Atlas. A sad kid, seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders but he showed us the way. So we climbed that fence by the gate. One by one, using the brass nameplate “The Fallows,” as a foothold. We were in the last yard. . .

to be concluded.