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    I jolted awake, accidentally yanking against my short leash. I let out a muffled cry of pain, squinting in the artificial light of the closet. Though conscious, my eyes remained bleary, only barely making out Tour outside the kennel. He undid the latch, forcing me to scoot forward as he opened the door. I blinked in surprise as he removed the leash (not the collar).

    “Out.” He dragged me from the crate by my sleeve, and I collapsed on the floor, watching as he took the prison from the closet. Why did he let me out? I tried to roll towards the door, but the close confines hindered me. It took Tour a while to return, and he didn’t speak when he did. He merely hoisted me over his shoulder and carried me through the house and towards the garage.

    I struggled, guessing he was probably taking me to an area where he could shoot me in peace. He continued, ignoring my movement, and we reached the truck. Tour had placed the kennel in the back, shoved between two pots and buried beneath a bunch of garden equipment. He got me inside without much difficulty and refastened the leash.

    At least, this time around, he had put towels in the bottom. They were more cushioned than the plastic beneath.

    The truck roared to life, and I cringed as inertia jerked me against the leash. The suspension was pretty bad, too, so it killed every time we hit a pothole.

    I couldn’t see where we were going, but it took a long time. Half an hour or more. What light did reach me was tinted green. Forest, I thought with a sinking feeling. He was gonna kill me. I was gonna die.

    We stopped, and Tour opened the bed a few minutes later. I could see the holster on his belt. He climbed in, removed the obstructions, and rounded behind the kennel. It jerked forward, slamming into the forest floor front corner first. My head smacked against the latch and I cried into the gag as dizziness spiraled through me.

    As my imminent death drew nearer, and Tour hopped out after me, I twisted my wrists in some hope that I’d have a fluke and get free before… I didn’t want to think about it.

    Tour looked down at me through the bars, expression mixed, hands shaking. I pleaded with my eyes, unable to do so with my mouth. Tears trickled down my cheeks, unbidden, but my pride had perished (again) the night before, so I wasn’t embarrassed. Just terrified.

    He unholstered the gun and pointed it at me, hands still shaking. I closed my eyes, whimpering into the gag.

    CRACK!

    No pain. Not even an impact. I peeked open an eye to see a smoking hole inches from my nose. Had he missed? Had he done it on purpose? I looked back up at him, hope gleaming in my gaze. Tour still had his gun leveled at me, but he looked about ready to drop it

    “What are you doing?” asked someone out of my line of sight. Tour did drop the gun, coughing and wheezing. Had he been afraid to shoot me? Why? He’d killed Mr. Scoots from the school in cold blood.

    “P-putting my dog down, ranger,” Tour managed, turning from me. I was too shocked to make any sound to contradict him. I wasn’t dead. “I d-don’t know if I can now… I couldn’t afford the vet, and he’s so ill.”

    “I’m afraid you’ve made a number of violations, sir,” the voice said gently. “I’m gonna have to cite you, but I can give you the number to a place that could help.”

    “Y-yes.”

    “Do you have any forms of identification on you?” I could see a pair of hiking boots, now. One last go. I shouted into the gag, making a very un-dog-like sound. The ranger whirled around, startled, and saw me. He nearly dropped his notebook. He glanced back at Tour, then back at me, then back at Tour again. He pulled out his gun and a walkie talkie. “I’m going to need some back up. Potential kidnap victim with an attempted murder,” he said into the radio. He addressed Tour, “Please keep your hands where I can see them.”

    The ranger kept Tour covered until a large jeep bounced into view, filled with other rangers. They took Tour into custody and sent scouts to search the area for reinforcements. The person who had inadvertently saved my life knelt beside the kennel, evidence gloves on. His nametag read Lucas Clyde.

    “Give me a minute, and I’ll have you out of there,” Lucas said as he untied the leash. “What a way to treat a kid!” He opened the door and helped me out of the crate. He used his knife to cut the rope and tie. I reached up as soon as my hands were free to take the soggy faux silk from my cheeks as Lucas unbuckled the collar. He took in my scraped up arms and torn pant legs. “We need a medic.” He stood, but the quivering child inside of me, the part of me usually ignored by my pride, reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

    “Th-thank you,” I managed in a hoarse whisper.

    As a medical officer cleaned the cuts I had made with my knife and the scratches dealt by the rosebushes, another ranger sat down next to me and asked me questions: Name, age, phone number, address, the situations leading up to my rescue. Some other awkward questions were asked that I won’t repeat, but all of them were answered in the negative.

    “Minor abrasions, a bruised jaw, chafing from the restraints, and a concussion, recently attained,” the medic announced. “Definitely needs a hospital.” I began shivering, more and more relieved to be alive. The jeep that the original ranger had driven up in was long gone, and the few of us left piled into the second. Someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and we bounced off.

    Since there was no service as far up the mountain as we were, a ranger had to hop out at the lodge to phone the hospital and local authorities about the situation. Meanwhile, Lucas tried to help me keep my mind off the stress with stories.

    “I have a younger brother. Your age,” he said as people were delegated to stay and to leave. “Named Foster. He likes soccer.”

    “Me too,” I whispered with a weak smile.

    We eventually made it to the county hospital where my sister was ready to greet me. I learned from her that our parents had come up the minute I had gone missing, and they were both waiting for me in my room. Once reunited, we listened as the police explained how Mr. Tour’s grudge against Mr. Scoots started when a job Scoots assigned Tour’s wife went wrong, resulting in her death. They couldn’t find any direct evidence linking Tour to the murder, but they could use my case to put him away for a long time.

    That night, while I was trying to sleep without the added help of Benadryl to calm me down, I overheard my parents talking about the possibility of my needing therapy. Their speculations were confirmed the next time I saw a dog kennel, a week later at Wal-mart. I stopped dead in my tracks to stare in horror at it (I don’t remember this, but Chloe claims it happened). It was in answer to this tale that my pride came bounding back in full armor to combat it.

    Somehow, my face didn’t make it on the news this time around, which I was grateful for. My parents and the police had talked to the news station. But, like any secret, everyone at school knew about it. They had heard the radio broadcast about my disappearance, had watched the report on the anonymous boy kidnapped and nearly murdered in the woods, and had put two and two together.

    My coach came up to me when I returned to practice and offered me a couple of excused absences. I refused them and kept playing. It was as good a therapy as any. Plus, I needed to be ready for the state tournament in two weeks. If anything, winning that would prove that life could go back to normal.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

    I jolted awake, accidentally yanking against my short leash. I let out a muffled cry of pain, squinting in the artificial light of the closet. Though conscious, my eyes remained bleary, only barely making out Tour outside the kennel. He undid the latch, forcing me to scoot forward as he opened the door. I blinked in surprise as he removed the leash (not the collar).

    “Out.” He dragged me from the crate by my sleeve, and I collapsed on the floor, watching as he took the prison from the closet. Why did he let me out? I tried to roll towards the door, but the close confines hindered me. It took Tour a while to return, and he didn’t speak when he did. He merely hoisted me over his shoulder and carried me through the house and towards the garage.

    I struggled, guessing he was probably taking me to an area where he could shoot me in peace. He continued, ignoring my movement, and we reached the truck. Tour had placed the kennel in the back, shoved between two pots and buried beneath a bunch of garden equipment. He got me inside without much difficulty and refastened the leash.

    At least, this time around, he had put towels in the bottom. They were more cushioned than the plastic beneath.

    The truck roared to life, and I cringed as inertia jerked me against the leash. The suspension was pretty bad, too, so it killed every time we hit a pothole.

    I couldn’t see where we were going, but it took a long time. Half an hour or more. What light did reach me was tinted green. Forest, I thought with a sinking feeling. He was gonna kill me. I was gonna die.

    We stopped, and Tour opened the bed a few minutes later. I could see the holster on his belt. He climbed in, removed the obstructions, and rounded behind the kennel. It jerked forward, slamming into the forest floor front corner first. My head smacked against the latch and I cried into the gag as dizziness spiraled through me.

    As my imminent death drew nearer, and Tour hopped out after me, I twisted my wrists in some hope that I’d have a fluke and get free before… I didn’t want to think about it.

    Tour looked down at me through the bars, expression mixed, hands shaking. I pleaded with my eyes, unable to do so with my mouth. Tears trickled down my cheeks, unbidden, but my pride had perished (again) the night before, so I wasn’t embarrassed. Just terrified.

    He unholstered the gun and pointed it at me, hands still shaking. I closed my eyes, whimpering into the gag.

    CRACK!

    No pain. Not even an impact. I peeked open an eye to see a smoking hole inches from my nose. Had he missed? Had he done it on purpose? I looked back up at him, hope gleaming in my gaze. Tour still had his gun leveled at me, but he looked about ready to drop it

    “What are you doing?” asked someone out of my line of sight. Tour did drop the gun, coughing and wheezing. Had he been afraid to shoot me? Why? He’d killed Mr. Scoots from the school in cold blood.

    “P-putting my dog down, ranger,” Tour managed, turning from me. I was too shocked to make any sound to contradict him. I wasn’t dead. “I d-don’t know if I can now… I couldn’t afford the vet, and he’s so ill.”

    “I’m afraid you’ve made a number of violations, sir,” the voice said gently. “I’m gonna have to cite you, but I can give you the number to a place that could help.”

    “Y-yes.”

    “Do you have any forms of identification on you?” I could see a pair of hiking boots, now. One last go. I shouted into the gag, making a very un-dog-like sound. The ranger whirled around, startled, and saw me. He nearly dropped his notebook. He glanced back at Tour, then back at me, then back at Tour again. He pulled out his gun and a walkie talkie. “I’m going to need some back up. Potential kidnap victim with an attempted murder,” he said into the radio. He addressed Tour, “Please keep your hands where I can see them.”

    The ranger kept Tour covered until a large jeep bounced into view, filled with other rangers. They took Tour into custody and sent scouts to search the area for reinforcements. The person who had inadvertently saved my life knelt beside the kennel, evidence gloves on. His nametag read Lucas Clyde.

    “Give me a minute, and I’ll have you out of there,” Lucas said as he untied the leash. “What a way to treat a kid!” He opened the door and helped me out of the crate. He used his knife to cut the rope and tie. I reached up as soon as my hands were free to take the soggy faux silk from my cheeks as Lucas unbuckled the collar. He took in my scraped up arms and torn pant legs. “We need a medic.” He stood, but the quivering child inside of me, the part of me usually ignored by my pride, reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

    “Th-thank you,” I managed in a hoarse whisper.

    As a medical officer cleaned the cuts I had made with my knife and the scratches dealt by the rosebushes, another ranger sat down next to me and asked me questions: Name, age, phone number, address, the situations leading up to my rescue. Some other awkward questions were asked that I won’t repeat, but all of them were answered in the negative.

    “Minor abrasions, a bruised jaw, chafing from the restraints, and a concussion, recently attained,” the medic announced. “Definitely needs a hospital.” I began shivering, more and more relieved to be alive. The jeep that the original ranger had driven up in was long gone, and the few of us left piled into the second. Someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and we bounced off.

    Since there was no service as far up the mountain as we were, a ranger had to hop out at the lodge to phone the hospital and local authorities about the situation. Meanwhile, Lucas tried to help me keep my mind off the stress with stories.

    “I have a younger brother. Your age,” he said as people were delegated to stay and to leave. “Named Foster. He likes soccer.”

    “Me too,” I whispered with a weak smile.

    We eventually made it to the county hospital where my sister was ready to greet me. I learned from her that our parents had come up the minute I had gone missing, and they were both waiting for me in my room. Once reunited, we listened as the police explained how Mr. Tour’s grudge against Mr. Scoots started when a job Scoots assigned Tour’s wife went wrong, resulting in her death. They couldn’t find any direct evidence linking Tour to the murder, but they could use my case to put him away for a long time.

    That night, while I was trying to sleep without the added help of Benadryl to calm me down, I overheard my parents talking about the possibility of my needing therapy. Their speculations were confirmed the next time I saw a dog kennel, a week later at Wal-mart. I stopped dead in my tracks to stare in horror at it (I don’t remember this, but Chloe claims it happened). It was in answer to this tale that my pride came bounding back in full armor to combat it.

    Somehow, my face didn’t make it on the news this time around, which I was grateful for. My parents and the police had talked to the news station. But, like any secret, everyone at school knew about it. They had heard the radio broadcast about my disappearance, had watched the report on the anonymous boy kidnapped and nearly murdered in the woods, and had put two and two together.

    My coach came up to me when I returned to practice and offered me a couple of excused absences. I refused them and kept playing. It was as good a therapy as any. Plus, I needed to be ready for the state tournament in two weeks. If anything, winning that would prove that life could go back to normal.