Into the Dark Read Free

picked up.
    “How’s that homework going?” she said.
    “Huh?” said Ty.
    “Is Mom or Dad there?”
    Ty shouted, “Mom! Dad!” Pause. “Guess not,” he said.
    “Where are they?”
    “Do I look like a search engine?”
    “That joke wasn’t funny the first time. I need to be picked up.”
    “So?” said Ty. “What am I supposed to do?”
     
    Downstairs Ingrid put her jacket on—a red jacket, red being her favorite color, the only one that said COLOR in big letters—and went out to the barn. Even just a few years ago lots of animals had lived on the farm, but now there was just one piglet—for tax purposes, Grampy said. He lived in a plywood pen she’d helped Grampy build, a pen kept in the barn for the winter. Ingrid unlatched the little door.
    “Here, Piggy.”
    Piggy ran out, not even glancing at her, and headed straight for the shelf in the corner where Grampy kept the Slim Jims. He made snorting sounds.
    “You’re getting so big.”
    Piggy didn’t care about that. He made more snorting sounds, kind of impatient now. Ingrid went over, peeled the wrapper from a Slim Jim, tore some off. Piggy tilted up his head, opened wide. Ingrid dropped the piece in. Gone in one chomp. More snorting, right away.
    “Don’t you even chew?”
    Head up, mouth open. Ingrid could see the tail end of the Slim Jim, way at the back. She dropped in the rest. Chomp. Snort.
    “That’s it, Piggy. Back in your pen.”
    But Piggy didn’t want to go back in the pen. A single Slim Jim still lay on the shelf, and his eyes—tiny but intelligent, even calculating, reminding her slightly of her math teacher, Ms. Groome—were locked on it. Ingrid reached into a bin for a handful of hay, covered up the Slim Jim.
    “All gone,” she said.
    Piggy snorted and didn’t budge. He wasn’t buying it for a second. Was this what being a mother would be like? If so, forget it.
    “You know you’re only allowed one,” Ingrid said. Grampy had a rule—although why it mattered, since pigs ate just about everything including slops and garbage and therefore couldn’t be spoiled, was something she didn’t under—
    What was that? Voices? Yes, some commotion outside: angry voices. Ingrid went to a window, wiped away the grime. From there she could see the front of the house, about twenty or thirty yards away. A green van stood in the driveway, with stenciledwords on the side: DEPARTMENT OF CONSERVATION . Grampy stood in the doorway of the house, facing a man about his own size, white-haired like Grampy but younger, dressed in a uniform, same color as the van. He had some papers in his hand and shook them at Grampy. Grampy batted them away with the back of his hand, scattering the papers in the snow. The man in green jumped back and snatched something from his pocket.
    A camera?
    Yes. The man in green stooped over and started taking close-ups of the scattered papers. That seemed to infuriate Grampy. He spun around and disappeared in the house. But not for long: A moment or two later he was back, the .22 rifle in his hands, barrel pointed to the ground. Ingrid banged open the barn door and raced outside.
    “Grampy! Grampy!”
    The men turned to her. They both froze for a moment. Then Grampy took the rifle and stuck it inside the house, out of sight. The man in green put his camera away and picked up the papers. Ingrid came to a halt a few steps away.
    “What’s happening?” she said. “What’s wrong?”
    The man in green—much younger than Grampy,one of those prematurely gray guys—turned back to Grampy and said, “I’m trying to do my lawful duty.”
    Grampy said, “This is my land. Get off.”
    The man in green folded the papers. “I’ll be back,” he said. “With a warrant and police protection if necessary.”
    Grampy started trembling. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said.
    They glared at each other. Then the man in green got in his van and drove away, spraying gravel. Ingrid went over to Grampy. She hated to see