Where the Forest Meets the Stars(7)

“Wow,” he said, looking at Jo.
“Smart little alien, isn’t she?” Jo held the dozen eggs out to the girl. “Would you put these in the refrigerator for me?”
“You’ll let me in your house?”
“Yes.”
“Only because you want to talk to him about me.”
“Put the eggs away.”
“Don’t say anything mean.”
“Go on.” The girl ran for the front door. “Walk,” Jo called, “or your scrambled eggs will be on the sidewalk.” She turned back to Egg Man. “What do you think?”
“I’ve never seen her before. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t live on our road.”
“She has to be from somewhere close. Her feet would be a mess if she’d walked far.”
“Maybe she lost her shoes since she got here . . . dipped her feet in a stream and forgot where she put them.” He got off the pickup and rubbed his hand on his beard. “Her accent sounds like she’s from around here—but all that stuff about graduate students and professors . . .”
“She got that from me.”
“Obviously, but she looks too young to put it all together as well as she does.”
“I know, that’s what I was trying to tell—”
The girl burst out the porch door at a run, bare feet slapping the cracked concrete. “What are you saying?” she asked breathlessly.
“We were saying it’s about time you went home,” he said. “Do you need a ride? I can take you in my truck.”
“You’re going to drive me across the stars to my planet?”
“You’re too smart to think we’ll believe you’re an alien,” he said, “and you know a girl your age can’t be out on her own. Tell us the truth.”
“I am!”
“Then Jo has no choice but to call the police.”
“Toh-id ina eroo-oy!” the girl said.
“Toad in a what ?” he said.
The girl burst into her alien language, speaking as fluently as she had the night before, but this time the speech was spoken as an invective at Egg Man, with much arm and hand gesturing.
“What was that?” he asked when she’d finished.
“I was telling you in my language that you should be nice to a graduate student who came all the way across the stars to see you. I’ll never get to be a professor if you don’t let me stay.”
“You know you can’t stay here.”
“Are you getting your PhD?” the girl asked.
He looked at her strangely.
“If you are, you’d know it’s wrong not to let me get mine,” the girl said.
He walked to his truck and opened the door.
“Wait . . . ,” Jo said.
He closed the door. “You’re on your own with this,” he said out the window.
“What if she’d shown up on your doorstep?”
“She didn’t.” He pulled out of the driveway fast, scattering gravel.
“What the hell? Henhouse on fire?” Jo said.
“What fire?” the girl said.
“Never mind.”
Clearly, something had pissed him off. Maybe he was insecure about Jo’s level of education. He’d changed when the girl asked if he was getting a PhD.
“I saw pie in the kitchen. Can I have a piece?”
Jo stared at the empty road as the rumble of Egg Man’s truck faded. Why couldn’t the people of his community take care of their own? Why would it be left to her, the outsider who didn’t know their ways, their unspoken rules?
“Can I?” the girl said.
Jo turned to her, trying not to look nervous. “Yes, you can have pie. But first you should eat something substantial.” And before that, Jo somehow had to call the sheriff without the girl knowing.
“Are scrambled eggs substantial?”
“They are,” Jo said, “but I want you to clean up before you eat. You have to take a shower.”
“Can’t I eat first?”
“I’ve told you the rules. Take them or leave them.”
The girl followed Jo into the house like a hungry puppy.


3

After her own quick shower, Jo sent the girl into the bathroom with a clean towel. She shut the door, listened for the water, and hurried outside with her phone when she was certain the girl was bathing.
The forest was gray, the same shade of twilight that had delivered the changeling to the cottage the night before. Jo walked down the driveway, swiping her fingers at mosquitoes, and beads of sweat mixed with water dripping out of her hair. Little Bear skulked nearby, following her every move like a spy for the alien child.
Connecting to the internet and finding the nonemergency sheriff’s number took more than seven minutes. When the sheriff’s operator answered, Jo rushed through the call, afraid the girl would come outside and hear her. She told the woman she needed a deputy to pick up a girl who might be homeless. She gave her address and a few directions to get there. The woman asked questions, but Jo only had time to say that she was very worried about the girl and she wanted someone to come out immediately. She hid the phone in her pocket and rushed back to the house.
Just in time. The girl was in the living room wrapped in a towel, long hair dripping down her thin shoulders. Her dark eyes studied Jo’s. “Where were you?” she said.
“I heard something out there,” Jo said, “but it was only the dog.” She walked closer to the child, hoping that what she saw were smears of mud the girl had failed to wash away. The marks weren’t dirt. She had purple contusions on her throat and left upper arm, and her right thigh was scraped and bruised. The high neck of her hoodie had covered the bruise on her throat. Her left arm appeared marked by fingers, as if someone had gripped her hard. “How did you get those bruises?”