red hill - jamie mcguire

THE BLONDE SAT ON THE bottom step of Walter’s porch, disinterested, and the rest of them stood
before us. Having so many eyes on us was a bit intimidating, even if they were just kids. I looked
down at a stain on my Oxford shirt. Now that Zoe and I were freshly showered, our clothes smelled
horrible, and felt heavy with dirt and sweat. Joy had offered to wash them, but I was afraid they
wouldn’t be dry in time and the kids would be antsy to get going and leave us behind.
The redhead spoke first. “I’m Miranda Hayes. That’s my sister, Ashley,” she said, nodding to the
blonde on the steps. “Our father is Dr. Hayes. He lives about nine miles north, up the road, there, and
then back west. It’s perfect for you and Zoe. If you help us fill up our tank, and a few gas cans, you
can follow us. I can’t promise you that my dad will let you stay, though.”
“No deal,” I said, my eyes narrowing.
“He’ll probably let you,” Ashley said, finally looking up at us. “He won’t turn away your little
girl.”
“But we don’t know how many people he’s helped already. I expect he will, but I can’t promise.
Understand”
“What about the guys with you How will you get him to let them stay”
“We have an open invitation,” the jock said. “Well, except him.”
He was talking about the soldier. They must have picked him up along the way. I decided that if
they had done that, they must think the father is open to more guests. “I’ll take my chances.”
“It’s getting late,” Walter said. “Meet us at the station in the morning. You got a watch”
The soldier nodded.
“Eight a.m.”
Miranda
“HOME SWEET HOME,” ASHLEY SAID. She was holding an empty gas can, looking up at the two-story
building just four blocks from the general store.
“Not really,” Cooper said, shrugging his shoulders to redistribute the weight of his bulging
backpack.
I shook my head. Why did guys insist on stuffing everything they needed for a weekend in a small
bag As if it wasn’t manly to appear to need more than one set of clean clothes
The house wasn’t anything special. The windows were darkened by dirty screens. The chipped
paint—on both the house and the concrete porch—admitted years of negligence. One small,
apologetic spot of soil in the front begged any visitors to believe all wasn’t lost. Even though the rest
of the house might have been too much for the owner to keep up with, that two-by-two plot of ground
was adorned with every color of pansy in existence. Not a single weed in the bunch. Every blade of
grass was carefully trimmed at the borders of the square of flowers, and fresh soil had been added not
long before.