Page 64 of Fragments of the Lost
“Wow, like the Boy Scouts,” I said. I was too bright, too cheerful, trying to make up for the terrible mistake I’d almost made, which he knew nothing about.
“You know what they say,” he said, tossing me the closed knife as he took the steps up two at a time. “Always be prepared.”
I laughed, and he called, “Be right back,” and it was then that I noticed the footprints he left behind on the wood—wet, and grimy, like the dirt in his wheels. I texted back and forth with Hailey while waiting.
“Boo.” Mia jumped out from behind the kitchen wall, and I really did jump then, my heart racing.
“Mia, you scared me to death.”
Mia smiled, but she wrinkled her nose at me. “That’s not possible,” she said. “You can’t scare someone to death. You have to hurt them.”
I jerked back, her words in sharp contrast to her easy smile. “Mia,” said Caleb, coming down the steps in a new change of clothes, “stop being creepy.” He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, flipping her upside down and back onto her feet in one smooth motion as she squealed with laughter.
Then he turned to me. “You really want to be scared to death? Listen to a child tell you about the people who come out of the walls at night.”
“Oh my God, stop,” I said, and even though he was laughing, the goosebumps rose on my arms.
He took the Swiss Army knife back, and slid it into the front pocket of his khaki shorts. “Mia,” he said, “wanna go to the park with Jessa?”
“I thought you had to paint,” she said, her face scrunched up in confusion.
“That can wait.”
“You’re painting?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Found some paint cans in the garage. Figured it was time for a change.”
“I can help,” I said, feeling there was something I could finally do.
He paused, and it looked like he was trying to think up some excuse. But then he shrugged. “If you want,” he said, wandering through the kitchen. I followed him into the garage, where he pulled a few paint cans from under the tool bench. There was one of eggshell white, unopened, and one of a deep blue. “Rustic Sea,” he said, reading the label.
“Probably too dark for the walls,” I said.
“Probably. But who said anything about the walls?”
We painted the door to the bunker that day—front and back and sides.
—
Now Max is holding the same knife in his hand, and I’m trying to remember what else Caleb said that day. If he ever explained the rocks in the tires, the water on his shoes. Max said he had car trouble, and I assumed he had to get the tires replaced. He hadn’t driven me anywhere the rest of August. But he came by for my birthday dinner over Labor Day weekend, and he drove me to school the first week, and he never mentioned anything about it again.
Max turns the knife over in his hand and the side of his mouth quirks up.
“The first time I met Caleb, we were eleven, and he had this thing with him.” Max’s voice drops lower. “I knew there was a kid my age who had moved in behind us, because my mom kept talking about it. I saw him in the yard in the afternoons, so I kind of timed it so I was out at the same time once. He was using this knife to make a sign. He was carving words in a piece of wood.”
“The Bunker,”I say, and his eyes cut quickly to mine.
“How’d you know?”
“I found it.”
“No kidding.”
“It’s in a box with his personal things now.”
He holds the knife in front of his eyes. “Well, that was it. That’s how we met. The beginning of it all.”
I’m captivated by Max’s story of the knife, so different from my own.
