Avis M. Adams - The Incident

She blinked, focused her vision. It was a man. She lifted her hand to wave but teetered on the log.

There are no more chances, Emma. Make something happen.

With a grunt, she stood on the highest spot of the log. The man was lifting something shiny and black from under a pile of branches. She called, but her voice seemed to fall straight to the ground. She coughed until she bent at the waist. Maybe hed hear her coughing?

A whistle. Thats what she needed. How many times had Mom suggested that, and she had scoffed? But even if she had a whistle, did she have enough energy to blow it?

Help. Her hoarse voice crackled in her ears. A dizzy spell hit, and she tilted. She gripped a branch sticking off the tree and stared at the boy, willed him to see her.

Help. She waved her arm. Why wasnt her coat bright red or yellow, not this drab gray? She had to do this for Mom. She grabbed a bushy twig lying across the tree. She waved it like a flag. She swung it over her head. She swirled it in a circle. How long could she keep this up? Not long.

The guy stopped what he was doing and turned his face toward her. Had he seen her?

When the man dropped the shiny, black thing, her brain buzzed. He raced across the field in her direction, and she sank onto the log.

Thank all the goddesses and stars.

The Incident

by

Avis M. Adams

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Incident

COPYRIGHT 2022 by Avis M. Adams

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2022

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3848-4

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3849-1

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Sylvia, a mentor, a friend, and a good writer.

Acknowledgments

Id like to thank Mary Aquino, who read this book in its rawest form, found the message timely, and encouraged me to keep writing. Thanks to Jody Segal and Anthony Warnke who read a less-raw version and gave feedback and further support. Thanks to Trevor OHara, who tore the book apart and helped me build a better version that started to sparkle.

Thank you to The Baker Street Critique group: Ardi Butler, Harvey Homan, Skeeter (Tim) Wilson, and Gary Habenicht who have supported me and helped me grow and stretch as a writer and gave me constant encouragement about the importance of this novel. And to the Flamingo Writers: Carl Lee, Catherine Brugger-Brown, Wendy Kendall, Melanie MacDonald, Jacquline Kang, and Preeti Gopalan who kept me writing and pushing forward on this arduous journey to publication. For me the learning curve was steep, my friends.

Id like to thank Alicia Dean for her editing session and encouragement to submit this novel, and Ally Richardson for promoting this book for publication. Thank you so much for the opportunity. Id also like to give my thanks to PNWA and their president, Pam Binder, who provide the resources that help novices like myself reach their publication goals. To anyone Ive forgotten, friends, family, and fellow writers, thank you from the top and bottom of my heart.

Chapter One

Josh

Josh sat at the dining room table and glared at the calculus problem on the worksheet. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why couldnt he get it? He pushed away from the table, the chair squeaking over the wood floor, and moved to the dining room window. A sign swung on its post at the end of the driveway, Woolf Farm, organic milk and vegetables, until Grandpa passed away. A For Sale sign hung beside it. How could his dad sell Grandpas farm? He stuffed his fists into his back pockets.

Grandpa was the farmer, and with him gone, it doesnt make sense to stay anymore, Dad had said.

Why sell the farm, though? Where would they go? Grandpa had been married here, and so had great grandpa. Did Woolf Family est. 1908, as carved in the sidewalk, mean nothing? It meant something to Josh.

Sold. That meantforever.

He plunked in the chair, laid his head on his arm, and hummed a bar from Pachelbels Canon in D. He shuffled through his precalculus papers scattered over the table, dropped his hands to his lap. What was the use? He couldnt concentrate. He walked to the window and plopped on the window seat, glanced around the yard for Fergus. He put his hand to the glass.

Both Grandpa and Fergus gone in one week, and soon the farm?

A golden maple leaf floated by the window, one of the last on the tree. November winds would clear off the rest, natures scrub brush. He rubbed his fingers over the polished oak of the window seat, smooth as glass, perfect, made so by Grandpas hand. Couldnt his dad see what hed be selling? They would never find a house like this in town, not one where stories hid in every corner, on every step, behind every door.

Tears pricked his eyes. He wiped them on the back of his sleeve. Mom said, grief takes time, but how much time? Why couldnt Fergus have hung around for another year at least? Fergus would have made it kind of bearable. Grandpa doted on his Irish wolfhound for twelve strong years, two years beyond the expected lifespan. It was a double whammy, for sure.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, he shook his head. It was time on his own that did this, gave him time to think of all hed lost. If he could only get past the grief.

Dr. MacMurray said it was normal to be distracted and unable to focus, but that didnt stop his grades from suffering, or his violin practice, or his soccer game. He wiped his nose and scanned the tabletop. Whered he put the stress ball?

A package with his grandpas test strips sat on the buffet. Diabetes. That word ate at him. He had fussed and fumed at the hospital as Grandpa disappeared before his eyes. Hed been helpless to do anything.

Diabetes runs in the family, Grandpa had said. Fine one day, in the hospital the next, just like my old man.

Hospice. Josh winced. Why couldnt he turn off this loop that wound through his brain over and over? Hed be a doctor one day, and then hed find a cure. But who would do his homework in the meantime? He scooped up the precalculus papers and forced himself to pick up a pencil.

He stared at the problem on the sheet, but his mind wouldnt focus. If they moved, where would Dad keep all his equipment? This farm was perfect. Everything had its place.

He crossed his arms, his thoughts drifting to summer evenings on the front porch, watching for bats flitting in the dusk. Grandpa would ask about soccer as the chickens clucked on their way to roost. Maybe that was why his dad wanted to sell. Grandpa was everywhere.

He set the pencil on the stack of precalculus homework and picked up his violin. He drew the bow over the strings. Somber notes drifted through the living room, like some fluent and soothing language, calming him. As he played, the birds would sing along, but where were the birds today? He drew the sheers back to reveal a row of steel gray clouds to the southwest. Was that why? The sky was still blue over the farm. Was that the storm Dad had predicted? It looked like a billowing black wall rushing toward them, and all the NOAA reports said it was supposed to be a big one.