Run(9)

But then something dawned on me.

“Oh no,” I muttered, blinking at the woods around me. Several paths fed into this clearing, and after spinning around like an idiot, I’d lost which one I’d come in on. And even if I found it, I’d forgotten which paths I’d taken to get there.

And, of course, I’d forgotten my phone. It might not have helped much—Mursey had awful cell phone reception, and most people in town couldn’t afford a cell phone anyway. My parents had bought me one for emergencies. Which seemed like a waste of money to me. I was always at home or with them. I’d never needed it.

But maybe I needed it now.

Because just like Mama had predicted all those years ago, I was lost.

My small rebellion didn’t feel so good anymore.

I was still trying to decide which path to take back when I heard a shout and something coming up—fast—behind me. I turned just in time to see a huge gray blur speeding toward me. I didn’t even have time to scream before it was on top of me, knocking me down and pinning me to the ground with its big paws. I yelped as a slobbery tongue began to lap at my cheeks.

“Utah!” a girl’s voice hollered. “Utah, get back here. Bad dog!”

The monster, which I now realized was a dog, backed off me with a whine and hurried back to its owner.

“You all right?” the girl asked.

I sat up, wiping doggy drool off my face. “I think so.”

There was a pause before the girl said, “Agnes?”

I blinked and tried to make my eyes adjust. I’d been too shaken to recognize the voice, but now, with my vision coming into focus, I saw the girl standing a few yards away. At least, I saw her red-gold hair.

Bo Dickinson.

I scrambled to my feet, embarrassed all of a sudden.

“What’re you doing back here?” Bo asked.

“Just … taking a walk,” I said, trying to sound casual. That’s when I realized I wasn’t holding my cane anymore. I looked down, but the grass was too high for me to see anything on the ground. “Crap.” I knelt down and started feeling around for it.

“What’s wrong?”

“My cane.”

“Oh.”

Then she was next to me, her hands bumping mine as they searched. With the added bonus of some sight, though, she had better luck finding it.

“Here.” She put the cane in my hands, and we both stood up. “Sorry about Utah. She just likes people a whole lot.”

As if to illustrate this, Utah began rubbing against my legs, her tail wagging hard enough that I thought she might bruise my calves.

“It’s okay,” I said, stepping back from the dog. “She just startled me. I’m not real used to dogs. We’ve never had one, and big ones make me nervous.” I didn’t know why I was telling her all that. Bo Dickinson probably didn’t give a damn about my anxiety around dogs.

“All right,” Bo said. “Well, Utah and me oughta be heading back, so …”

“Okay,” I said. “See you at school, I guess.” I looked back at the woods and swallowed. Now I was really embarrassed. “Actually, Bo?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you … Can you help me?” I tried to smile. “I took the path less traveled and didn’t fare quite as well as Robert Frost.” Bo was quiet for a long moment, and I realized she might not know what I was saying. “I’m lost,” I admitted. “I can’t remember how I got here, and—”

“Oh. Okay. You want me to walk you back to your house?”

“You … know where my house is?”

“I’ve spent a lot of time out here,” she said. “I know where all the paths go. Come on.”

I followed her out of the clearing and back into the trees, Utah the dog running along beside us. Part of me was paranoid she’d turn and jump on me again, and I wished Bo had her on a leash. I stared straight ahead, watching Bo’s wild hair as it wove between trees, guiding me like some sort of fairy in a children’s story.

Neither of us spoke for a while, then, out of nowhere, Bo broke the silence. “Can I ask you something?” I didn’t have time to answer before she went on and asked anyway. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“Um … well, I’m legally blind.”

“I know that. I ain’t stupid. I mean, why? Were you in some kind of accident as a kid or … ?”

“No. I was born this way,” I said. “It’s called Leber’s congenital amaurosis, but doctors usually call it LCA. It’s genetic. My parents carry the gene and just didn’t know it until they had me.”

“So they can’t fix it?”

“Nope. Not as far as we know.”

This was the part where people usually said something like “I’m so sorry” or “Wow, Agnes, you’re such a trouper.” But Bo didn’t say a word. She just kept walking, not bothering to warn me about tree roots or uneven ground. She didn’t need to, that’s what my cane was for, but most people still did.

We didn’t say anything else until we reached the end of a path, and Bo stopped, letting me catch up to her. “That’s it,” she said. “Straight ahead is your backyard.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It would’ve taken me forever to get back.”