The Road We Could Take

Miller brought the current road sheet back after lunch, damp at one corner where the rain had caught it under his coat. He spread it over the table beside the old survey. The two maps disagreed at the charcoal grounds, where the newer road bent south and the older one kept going northwest.

“Driver from the mill went out there yesterday,” he said. “He can take a cart as far as the old kiln. Past that, the track narrows. There’s a creek crossing, but he couldn’t tell me if it’ll hold a cart.”

I leaned over the lines. The maps smelled like wet paper. I kept my hands in my lap while Miller pinned down the corners with the same little jars as before.

“So which way would you go?” I asked.

“To the kiln first. I can look at the crossing from there. If it’s sound, I’ll continue. If it isn’t, I’ll turn back and find another way.”

The answer had the shape of a plan. It also had the shape of Miller walking away from Oakhaven toward the place I had run from.

Clara set a plate of sliced apple beside me. “You don’t have to study this on an empty stomach.”

“I ate lunch.”

“You moved the soup around until it cooled.” She put a fork beside the plate. “That’s a different activity.”

I ate a slice. The apple was tart enough to make my jaw ache. Miller waited without pushing the map closer.

The new road ran out to the kiln in a straight dark line. The old track curved around the rise, then crossed the thin blue creek mark. I tried to fit the lines to what I remembered. Mud under my shoes. A fence leaning toward the road. Water at my left, if I was walking toward the tower. I couldn’t tell whether I had seen the kiln or only heard the word from someone else.

“Would you take the lower road?” I asked. “The one beside the creek?”

“Not until I know what’s happened to the crossing.” Miller tapped the mark near the kiln with one blunt claw. “The cart can get me this far. I’ll check the ground before I decide whether to go on.”

“What if you can’t cross?”

“Then I don’t cross.”

I watched his claw lift from the map. The road remained visible beneath it. I had wanted to ask him to go. I had also wanted to tell him not to. Both requests felt like putting my hands on his coat and trying to hold him where I could see him.

Clara moved around the counter, finding her way by the familiar sounds of the room. A cooling rack clicked into place. The front bell rang, and she turned toward the door before I did.

A fox in a patched green raincoat stepped inside, carrying a folded umbrella. He ordered two rye loaves and asked whether the post cart had come. Clara answered while she wrapped the bread. He glanced at the maps, then at me, and shifted his attention back to the counter.