The Crossroads

Zack pushed the button on his watch to illuminate the dial.

“It’s 9:52,” he said. “Just like the clock in the tower, hunh?”

“Yep,” Davy said. “Light her up!”

Zack held the box of matches.

“You do it,” he said.

“What?”

“You light it. I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what, pardner?”

“I dunno. What if the stump explodes or something?”

“Kerosene don’t explode. You’re thinkin’ gasoline.”

“You do it! Okay? Please?”

Davy shook his head. “Nope. It’s up to you. You’re the chosen one, Zack.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because this was too important to trust to anybody else. Light the match, Zack. It’s time.”

“What do I tell Judy when she—”

“We’ll worry about that later. Light ’er up!”

Zack’s hands were shaking so much he rattled the matchbox. He finally worked the lid open, pulled out a wooden Blue Tip, and scratched it along the strike pad. The match sparked but wouldn’t light.

“Try again,” urged Davy.

Zack snapped the match sharp and quick. The head flared to life and he flicked it at the stump. A small spot of blue flame erupted on the edge of a single clump of charcoal. Fire spread slowly at first, creeping across the briquettes, then—whump! The flames found the fuel-soaked wood.

“We’re in business!” said Davy.

“Yeah.” Zack brought his arm up to shield his face from the fire’s intense heat. “You think we poured in too much kerosene?”

“Nah. It’ll settle down.”

A bell rang in the distance.

“Oh, no! Is that your father?”

“Dang. I reckon he finally figured out that we didn’t follow him home. I’ll go deal with him. You stay here.”

“What?”

“See you later, Zack. And thank you. Thank you kindly.”

“For what?”

“Doin’ what needed to be done.” Davy ran down the hill to the highway.

“Wait!” Zack heard the fire roar behind him, heard a hiss when it boiled what little water remained inside the old lady’s flower bucket. The white cross’s knotty wood popped like corn in the microwave.

“Davy?”

The flames shot higher and filled the black sky with burning red stars.

“Davy!”

No one answered.

Davy was gone.