The morning breeze trickled in through my window, lake-scented.  Drowsing beneath the cool worn sheet, a light waft of bleach and sunlight tickled my nostrils.  I dozed with one ear open, stretching to savor every sense . . . 10 years old, a rare summer morning, undisturbed.   I imagined myself tall and languid.

The trumpet.  The trumpet is what woke me in a cold sweat, flung me out of bed, and into the far-too-quiet upstairs hallway.  No one was there.  My brothers’ beds were unmade, not unusual . . . but my parents’ bed was also abandoned and rumpled . . . as if a thief . . . no.

Owl to Raven, Living Room, 2008: "No, seriously, go ahead and watch the Nostradamus thing . . . I'm going to do laundry, so you go ahead."

The trumpet again, somewhere in the distance.  There was a jackhammer in my chest, thudding even in my ears.  I took a deep breath, tried to slow myself as I crept down the stairs, just in case.  I was suddenly glad I had slept in my clothes, cutoffs and a football jersey . . . scant preparation . . .

Far too still, the downstairs was as abandoned as upstairs. 

I kept my eyes on the front windows.  The sun had risen some time before, but I was watching for a sign . . . the trumpet would sound, and Christ would appear in the east, and the dead in Christ . . .

I ran for the driveway, looking at the sky above the cemetery a quarter mile north . . . nothing.  I was too late.  Too late. Unless . . .

I checked the garage on my way back into the house, and the car was still there.  Rats.  The pounding in my ears was almost deafening.

Through the breezeway, through the kitchen . . . picked up the phone . . . dialed the number of my best friend from church . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . hung up, dialed the number of my second best friend from church . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . . it rang . . .

No.  No.  No.

My gray cat came running, tangling around my feet . . . oh Smokey!  What would I do with her?  I pushed the thought aside to concentrate.

Owl to Therapist, 2006?:  "Well, I guess I'm here because I've been experiencing anxiety attacks, you know, what with the escalating tensions between Palestine and Isreal."

This was wrong.  Not my brother, and not me.  Mick is in trouble all the time.  I am not.  Mick couldn’t have been taken . . . except . . . he's only seven.  Maybe too young to have reached the age of accountability.  Okay.  I should be happy for him.  The little one, well, at four, he should be in the arms of Jesus.

Okay. 

I pace in the hall by the phone, crossing from the linoleum onto the shag carpet of the living room and back again, trying to steady . . . What's my plan . . . I've been working on this . . .

The non-Christians in the neighborhood are good people.  They’d probably help me, if I need it.  When I need it.  Maybe.  Depends on how harsh the crackdown for the Mark of the Beast.  I don't want to put them at risk.  But I can't take the Mark of the Beast.  Maybe they wouldn’t want the risk.  Who could blame them?

Then again, maybe . . . maybe I won't be welcome at all . . . I mean, if I wasn’t good enough to make God’s cut, maybe . . .

Maybe take the Mark of the Beast and help those who didn't?  Maybe that would make me a martyr?  Wait . . . I don't have to decide yet . . . wait . . .

Okay.

 Owl, to no one in particular, September 11, 2001: "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit . . . so this is how it begins . . .

Resources.  The electricity will stay on for awhile, probably.  I’ll have the house, at least until someone figured out there are no adults around. 

Money.  I check my wallet . . . five dollars saved from various allowances.  How will I get to town?  Worry about that later.  Money will be worthless soon, anyway.  Water from the well depends on electricity.  Water from the lake?  Have to boil it when the time comes.

Food.  Some in the refrigerator, and the freezer in the basement.  Except . . . I don’t know how to cook . . . but I can read . . . there are cookbooks . . . okay for now.   I know how to not burn the house down, that's a start.

I knew I should have started the shelter in the woods.  I should have started it in the spring.  Oh well.  It's summer.  No one will be wondering where I am, so I can start on it tomorrow.  

Today, I'll start assembling survival gear, an axe, the fishing poles and tackle, a saw . . . did we have a tarp?  The coolers.  Jacknife.  Rope, string, twine, tape . . . duct tape . . .  Tools.  I'll need to make several trips.  Take the books, too . . . the Foxfire book, and the one on shelters, and the one on wilderness survival . . .

I'll have to transport things at night, so no one knows where my shelter is.  I can use my bike.

Maybe I should make a list.

For now, I’ll be okay.  For now, I’ll be okay.

Okay.

I slowed my breathing, and glanced up to the picture window in the living room.  Rounding the corner outside, a motion.  Mom.  Dad.  Mick.  Matt.  A morning walk.

Owl to Parents, phone conversation, Easter Eve, 1996?:  "Don't think for a second that I'm not aware of what the church teaches about homosexuality . . . I'm willing to stake my soul that it's wrong."

I took the stairs to my room two at a time.  Closed the door.  Curled up in my bed with the sheet covering my shivers.  Buried my face in the pillow to muffle the tears, and my God-pleas . . . my God-please.

Safe.  For now.

Epilogue:

Pain from pearls - hey little girl

How much have you grown?

Pain from pearls - hey little girl

Flower for the ones you have known

Are you on fire,

From the years?

What would you give for your

Kid fears?

Secret staircase, running high,

You had a hiding place.

Secret starcase, running low,

But they all know now you're inside.

Are you on fire,

From the years?

What would you give for your

Kid fears?

Skipping stones, we know the price now,

Any sin will do.

How much further, if you can spin.

How much further, if you are smooth.

Are you on fire,

From the years?

What would you give for your

Kid fears?

Replace the rent with the stars above.

Replace the need with love.

Replace the anger with the tide.

Replace the ones, the ones, the ones that you love.

Are you on fire,

From the years?

What would you give for your

Kid fears?

Replace the rent with the stars above.

Replace the need with love.

Replace the anger with the tide.

Replace the ones, the ones, the ones that you love.

Want more about the story?

Here's Part I of Hook, Line, and Sinker; it's kind of my intro to the subject.

Part II is here, if you want the "middle ground."

Part III is here, with the "ending."

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