BeckyFarris

In the whispers of shifting autumn leaves one could almost imagine the faint ghosts of children's voices rising up into the electric blue sky. The air was in that tumultuous shift that marked the end of hot and the beginning of cold...one moment warm and comforting, before a cool breeze would sweep by, stirring the leaves and carrying with it faint smoke and the chill promise of winter.

Smoke.

Leaning against the old iron-wrought gate, now stoppered with weeds and chained with a rusted padlock, Took's green eyes shifted along the brick to the far corner of the yard.

The sugi had grown much larger, its roots spreading and breaking through the heavy chainlink, which wept rust like blood from an old wound. She'd seen pictures of it in 1950, a small sapling in a nice circular patch of dirt ringed by decorative brick. Japanese cedar. When she'd first crossed these gates, it had grown enough to break out of the ringed brick.

It wants to get out of here as much as we do, Took.

Behind her glasses her eyes shut momentarily as the ghost of a voice seemed to sift through the smoke on the breeze. The smoke. What she smelled now was probably someone burning leaves a few miles away, or someone stoking up their wood barbecue. But what it recalled...

They say that scent is the most powerful sense linked to memory. With her eyes closed, smelling that smoke and hearing that non-existant voice Took was almost there again. The sugi. That's where the kids had gone to smoke. Behind the shade of the big tree, tucked in the corner where they couldn't easily be spotted. Took had smoked too. Everyone there did. Even some of the seven year olds smoked, given enough time.

She didn't smoke any more. Her last cigarette had been behind this gate. When she'd come out the other side she hadn't picked up another one. Not so much as a single butt. Tobacco was just another bad that had shaken off her shoes along with the dust of this place.

But it hadn't ever really gone, had it?

The huge brick building was boarded up now. It's windows mostly broken. Graffitti painted its sides in swirls of neon green and orange and red. Meaningless tags. Gang symbols. Claims laid on a building no one had wanted to ever lay claim to twenty years ago.

"Hey, Took," Patton called from the car. The wind snapped at Took's jacket, making the smiley face button pinned to the lapel tink against the button holding an image of Papa Smurf's face. Her blonde hair, escaping its haphazard pony-tail, danced like tenticles under the sea. Half tucking her head she shoved her hands in her pockets and glanced at the car.

Patton, that little five foot nothing spitfire sat on the edge of the passenger's seat, hands dangling between her knees beside the propped open door. Her short red hair, naturally touselled, seemed impervious to the breeze. Her eyes squinted a little in concern.

"You okay?" she asked. Took bobbed her head once, then twice, turning back to the gate.

"Yeah. Gimme a minute," she said. Her hands shifted in her pockets. The butt of the .45 Smith and Wesson shifted in its holster at her hip. Unconsciously her hand stole out of her jacket and reseated it more snugly, checking that the snap was in place.

You gonna shoot me, Took? Would if you were smart.

The remaining chain of an abandoned and mostly destroyed swingset tapped lightly against the metal post supporting it. Took's hand left the gun and slipped into the chainlink, hanging there as she leaned forward a little.

How old had she been when she'd come here? Thirteen. Thirteen years and seventeen foster homes old. It was right after Darren and the 30 Aught 6. Right after she'd seen dead people for the first time. The windows hadn't been broken then. The gate had been strong and black and clean, sliding open quietly on its well oiled hinges as sunlight flashed--

---

--through the car windows in a march of shade and brilliance that kept her eyes adjusting madly. Taking off the heavy, black-rimmed glasses, Lisa pinched at the bridge of her nose, pressed at her eyes, then blinked in exagerated motions before sliding the glasses back on. Beside her on the car seat sat a small, battered backpack. In the driver's seat was Mrs. French, the social worker. Every time she moved Lisa got a puff of powdery perfume that made her nose itch. She'd spent most of the trip trying not to sneeze.

"You may have heard some bad things about this place," Mrs. French was saying. "It's all just rumor. LoRaca is the best place for you to be right now. You'll have the best counseling, and you'll make all sorts of new friends who will have gone through similar situations. You'll be right at home in no time."

Lisa only peered out the window again, as the car slowed and the gates began to swing open. The brick building was large and new and reminded Lisa of a factory. If it hadn't been for the three ranked swingsets, the painted basketball court, and the sandpit, it could well have been.

But then, even with the thin disguise, that's what it was, wasn't it? A factory. It took kids like her, chewed them up and spit out responsible, productive adults. Adults who didn't scream in the middle of the night or hear voices or anything that was wacko.

Right at home, Mrs. French had said. What did that mean? How did she even know how that felt? Would she know when it felt 'right at home?' She'd been abandoned when she was two years old. She'd been moved here, moved there, no place lasting even a year. So how then did home feel? She'd never had one, and didn't know.

She doubted 'home' felt like this place. It was a cold, unsmiling building and even as the car found its way into a small parking stall, Lisa could feel thunder in the air.

She gathered the little backpack, her beat up old Nike's making no sound as they touched the blacktop, taking her weight. She looked up at the sky. Thunder in the air, but not a single cloud to be seen. The sky was blue, carefree, oblivious.