The woman stepped out of thin air in the middle of Jeremy's bedroom. She had tanned skin and dark cropped hair with a flare of green running through it. Her shining brown eyes scanned the room before settling on him. Faint freckles were scattered on top of her slender cheeks. As his gaze lingered on her, he realized he could see through her to his bedroom wall, which for some reason didn't bother him nearly as much as the green stripe running through her hair. Why would someone do that? He wondered if she had tattoos under her blouse, a further defilement of God's gift of flesh and bone. But those were his father's words, not his. He stared at the enchanting woman until the white swirling patterns on her dark skirts made him dizzy.

"Get up," the deep grating voice of his father filled the room and sadness filled the beautiful woman’s eyes. "Get up!" A tidal wave of sound from below washed the woman back to wherever she came from, her transparent form blown through the wall. Jeremy wiped the sleep from his eyes as his block-shaped sister stomped into his room. His parents removed all the doors inside the house last year, except their own bedroom door. He never thought to question why they were allowed to keep their door. But at ten years old, he wished he could have at least a little private time, a space to play with what toys he had away from the prying eyes of his older sister. When he mentioned it to his mother, she told him to never bring it up again, especially in front of his father. Children didn't need privacy; they needed to study the Good Book and learn how to take care of the family.

"You better move crap head." The high-pitched whine of his sister's voice was a stark contrast to his father’s deep roar. The stairs creaked. "I told him, Daddy!" she said as she dashed out of the room. Was his father coming?

Fear gave him energy, and he burst from beneath his soiled cover. "I'm coming!" He tugged on his stained jeans and ran fingers over his shaved head. There was almost a quarter of an inch on top. His mom would shave it again soon. He smelled wood smoke and hoped he hadn't slept too late for luxuries like breakfast, or teeth brushing. He pulled socks on and shoved his feet into faded work boots. He would have to find new socks soon; blisters were taking shape on his heels.

Before he knew it, he was in the back of his father's old gray pickup truck, bouncing down the gravel road. His stomach rumbled, and he thought of his mother and sister, still back at the house, eating eggs and toast. No time for him to eat, his father had said. If he wanted food, maybe he'd get up on time tomorrow. Maybe, he thought, they would finish whatever they were doing this morning in time for lunch. He held on tightly as the lush green countryside rolled past. They must be working the outer field today or tending to the few cows they still had. He wished they were riding into Stillwater again, like they did last week.

His young mind didn't understand everything he had seen from the last trip, but he was enthralled. It was one of two times he had been to town. He didn't remember the first clearly, vague images of grownups shouting over him, and a stark brick building came to mind. He thought someone was upset with father because he and his sister didn't go to school. Despite the yelling and finger pointing by the stern looking official, they still didn't go to school. The truck bounced off the gravel road and into a field, pulling his attention to the present moment.

Jeremy knew they were checking on the livestock now. This was his favorite part of the week. He loved the cows and goats, but dreaded working with the chickens because his father made him slaughter them. Grab their necks, give them a sharp swing, or hold them down and swing the hand axe. Jeremy shuddered at the thought.

"Come on, boy," his father said as he stepped out of the pickup and slammed the door.

Jeremy jumped over the side of the truck and walked through a dilapidated wooden gate. He knew that across the field, just on the other side of the creek, through the trees, they would find the cattle. It had rained just before dawn and the tall grass glistened in the early morning light. Birds called in the tree line, insects buzzed, and the air smelled fresh and new. If he could stay outside, he thought, live in a tent, and never go back to the cramped house with no doors, he would. No sister to scream at him. No mother to guilt him with her sad eyes. No father to —

"Keep up," his father said. Jeremy quickened his pace.

He scanned for frogs as he leaped across the creek. Last time he had caught a giant toad. Of course, he let it go and ran back to the fence they were repairing before his dad saw him playing. This time, as he landed on the opposite side of the water, one of his feet sank into thick mud. As he yanked his foot free and stumble backward, he looked up and noticed a figure kneeling on the bank just a few yards away. The young man stared at Jeremy with large round eyes encased in dark chocolate-colored skin. He wore torn jeans and a filthy t-shirt. Jeremy had never seen a black person before.

"Hello," Jeremy said, raising his hand to wave, just as he found himself knocked backward by a strong shove from his father.

"What are you doing here, boy? You ain't supposed to be here, this my land. Answer me, are you stupid? You running from somebody? What'd you do?" These were more words than Jeremy usually heard from his father in an entire day. Jeremy's head was spinning as his father's questions came out too fast for the young man to answer.

"I ain't done nothing." The young man turned as if to run, but his father caught him by the arm.

"We'll see." The young man pulled back, and Jeremy cringed. You never pulled back from his father. If he laid hands upon you, it was best to just take what was coming and bottle your emotions for a later time. But this person didn't know his father. He wasn't expecting the sudden jab to his face. It didn't look particularly hard, but Jeremy knew from experience that his father's punches, even fast jabs like this, were enough to knock all the thoughts out of your head. He usually assumed that this was his father's intention. Sometimes, though, Jeremy suspected his father just needed to let bottled up emotions out through violence. It was no different than when he punched his pillow and sobbed into it, except, he had to be quiet so nobody would hear. Crying was not allowed.

Jeremy saw that the effect on this young man was no different than it was on him. His hands were to his face, an instinct to stop the blood flow from his nose. His eyes were distant and blurry and Jeremy knew what the landscape looked like from behind eyes like that. He had immediately stopped resisting and his father dragged him along. He sympathized with the young man who probably didn't know what he had done wrong. Jeremy rarely did either.

He wondered why his father was so angry about this boy by the creek. They had seen local boys by the creek on many occasions and his father had never paid them any attention. The boys cringed when they walked by, but nothing more. He searched his nine-year-old logic for some explanation.

"You stay," his father commanded as he marched the young man away. Jeremy didn't argue. As soon as the pair were out of sight, over the bank of the creek, he moved over to where the boy had been kneeling. It looked like he was washing his face, or drinking water, but why would someone drink this dirty old water? It occurred to him then to wonder where his father was taking the other boy.