Walk Me Home Read Free Page A

showing yellow teeth. Carly stands close enough to smell him. That deep, musty, not-at-all-unpleasant horse smell.
    “You want some food, don’t you?” Jen says to him, the way you’d talk to your pet dog. “But if I had some food, let me tell you, I’d eat it myself. You can eat grass. You’re lucky. Wish we could eat grass. And sleep standing up in a field all night and not mind.”
    Carly sits gingerly on a big tire that’s half buried in the dirt against the fence. Extra big, like a tractor tire. She has to use her hands to ease herself down.
    “We have food,” she says.
    Jen comes and sits with her.
    “What do we have?”
    “Two more Snickers bars.”
    “Breakfast! Score!”
    Carly takes off her own backpack and roots around in there until she finds the two candy bars at the bottom. She hands one to her sister.
    “Make it last,” she says.
    “I’d rather have it all now.”
    “But then you’ll be sorry later.”
    “But maybe we’ll get more food later.”
    “But maybe not.”
    “I’ll take my chances.”
    “Look. I’m the grown-up now. And I say just eat half.”
    Jen rolls her eyes, but she breaks the candy bar in half, folds the wrapper over the half she’s been told to save, and slides it into her shirt pocket.
    “You’re as bad as Mom,” Jen says.
    Carly can feel the darkness in the air between them, the sense that Jen would snatch the words back inside if only she could.
    “I can’t believe you just said that, Jen.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
    “But you didn’t mean it in a good way, right? When you say I’m as bad as Mom, that’s not a compliment to Mom. You’re saying Mom was bad.”
    “Hey! You’re the one that—”
    “That’s called speaking ill of the dead, Jen. And it’s a thing nobody is
ever
supposed to do,
ever
. And you’re the superstitious one, so I’m really surprised you would speak ill of the dead.”
    Jen looks up and around, as though trying to identify a particular area of sky.
    “Sorry,” she whispers.
    Then she takes a bite of her breakfast.
    The paint horse leans over the wire, snuffling his muzzle in the direction of the food. His lips make a popping sound that causes Jen to turn around, and she laughs out loud to see him there.
    “Horses don’t eat Snickers bars,” she says.
    But a minute later a strong breeze upends the long, dark strands of Jen’s curly hair, and both of Jen’s hands fly up to her head to brush it back into place. And the horse, seizing an opportunity, leans farther over the fence and nicks the candy with his teeth.
    Jen screams laughter again and holds the treasure close against her chest.
    “Ick,” Carly says. “Now you have to throw away the part he touched.”
    “No way. I’m not wasting it.”
    “You’ll get a disease or something.”
    “People don’t get diseases from horses.”
    “How do
you
know?”
    Jen raises the candy bar and chomps off half of what’s left in one big bite.
    “If my neck starts getting longer,” Jen says, her mouth full, “and my feet get hard, you can throw a saddle on me and ride me all the way to California.”
    “We’re not walking all that way. Teddy’ll come get us.”
    Jen doesn’t answer.
    Remembering something, Carly grabs one of Jen’s ankles and pulls her leg out and up, until she can examine the bottom of Jen’s sneaker. Even though she can’t remember which foot it was.
    “Ow,” Jen says. “What?”
    On the bottom of Jen’s sole is a hole about the size of a quarter, worn clear through. Carly can see the dusty dark green of Jen’s sock. She drops that ankle and grabs the other. The bottom of that sole has a hole the size of a dime. Carly gives Jen her feet back.
    “Why didn’t you tell me you had holes in your shoes?”
    “It’s not like you could have done anything.”
    “We could put cardboard inside or something.”
    “Oh. Yeah. I guess.”
    A minute later Carly stands up, using her hands for support, and tugs on Jen’s