It was noon.
James and Lewis followed Travis towards the shed through the trash-strewn yard. Above, the sky shone clear and bright.
"You'll see," Travis said.
The three reached the shed. Travis opened the door, then stepped aside, letting the other two in first.
All were ten years old.
"In the corner," Travis said. "Down by the floor."
The two other boys went in.
"I don't see it," Lewis said.
"Just wait," Travis said, "keep looking."
Then they saw it:
In the corner, down by the floor, a circle of darkness.
"Told you," Travis said. "Told you I had it."
James and Lewis moved closer, staring. They listened. The circle made a sound.
Like wind.
"There's dogs in it," Travis said. "That's the sound of thousands of them."
"How did you get them?" Lewis asked.
"I don't tell anyone that," Travis said.
"Why not?" Lewis asked.
Travis didn't say.
"Are they hurt?" James asked.
"Yes," Travis said. "They're all hurt."
"Will you ever let them out?" Lewis asked.
"No," Travis said. "Never."
The two boys kept watching, listening.
The year was 1993.
2
That night, at dinner in the living room in front of the T.V., James's mother noticed he wasn't eating.
"What's the matter?" she asked. She sat on the couch with her boyfriend, Rick. "Ain't you hungry?"
James looked at her from the floor. He said nothing. Lady, the family's black and gold mutt, laid by his side.
"Why aren't you eating?" James's mother demanded.
"Eat, boy," Rick said, lighting a cigarette. "I'm already finished."
"Are you sick?" James's older sister asked.
"No," James said.
"I think you're sick," she said.
"Are you sick, boy?" Rick said.
"No," James said.
"He's not sick," his mother said. "He's just stubborn."
James looked at the TV again. His chest felt cold with fear.
He kept quiet.
3
After school the next day, James and Lewis walked along the creek behind their trailer park, shaded by the trees.
"Do you think Travis's lying?" Lewis asked.
"I don't know," James said.
"People have been losing dogs a lot," Lewis said. "I heard my neighbors talking about it."
"Did they lose their dog?"
"No," Lewis said.
James picked up a rock. He threw it into the creek.
Lewis did the same.
4
The three boys sat in the cafeteria, talking. It was lunchtime. Outside, the sky was strewn with clouds.
"It's getting bigger," Travis said.
"What are you gonna do with it?" Lewis asked.
"I don't know," Travis said.
"What would happen if you fell in?" Lewis asked.
"You'd be swirled," Travis said, eating his sandwich. "You'd be smeared."
James stared at his food. He couldn't eat.
"Would you die?" Lewis asked.
"No," Travis said. "You don't die. You just hurt."
"How bad do you hurt?"
"Real bad," Travis said. "You hurt all the time."
"Like hell?" Lewis asked.
"Yeah," Travis said. "Like hell."
5
School was over.
The three boys got on the bus. They sat at the back.
Lewis and Travis talked about the circle. James remained quiet, listening.
The minutes passed.
Travis's stop came. He got up, grabbed his book bag and slipped out with the others.
Lewis and James looked on.
"Do you think he made that up about the dogs?" Lewis asked.
"Yeah," James said, lying. His eyes went to the window. The bus moved forward.
"He's going to hurt Lady," he said.
"Maybe he'll leave Lady alone," Lewis said.
James said nothing.
Outside, the world looked ugly and strange.
6
Days passed.
James's school work suffered. He slept little. He ate less. He felt sick.
"Are you getting sick, son?" his mother asked him one evening.
"No," he told her.
She felt his head.
"No fever," she said.
"Yeah," he said.
"You seem sick," she said. "Do you need a trip to the doctor?"
"No," he said.
She shook her head.
She lit a cigarette.
"He's not sick," James's sister said. "He's faking."
"Are you faking it?" his mother asked.
"No," James said.
7
On Saturday, James's mother dropped him off at Travis's. Lewis was with him. The three boys went into the backyard, then to the shed. Travis opened the door. Lewis and James stepped in.
The "circle" was gone.
"Where is it?" Lewis asked.
"Wait," Travis said. He sat down by the corner.
Slowly, the circle appeared — swirling and ink-black. On the black shone thousands of twinkling lights.
"Wow," Lewis said. "What are those little lights? Stars?"
"They're eyes," Travis said. "Dogs' eyes."
The three stared at it. They could hear it.
"How many dogs are in it now?" Lewis asked
"I don't know," Travis said. "A lot."
"And you put them all there?"
"Not just me. I'm the only one who has one in the neighborhood, though."
"Why won't you tell us how you got it?" Lewis asked.
"You keep asking that," Travis said.
"Yeah and you never tell."
Travis grinned. "Maybe the devil gave it to me," he said.
Lewis and James looked at each other.
"Come on," Travis finally said, "let's go inside."
"I want to keep looking," Lewis said.
"Come on," Travis said. "Let's go."
"Ah man," Lewis said.
The two boys walked out. Travis shut the door behind them.
James said nothing. His throat felt cold.
8
One night the phone rang.
James's family was in the living room watching a movie Rick had rented. Dinner had already been eaten.
"Pause it!" James's mother shouted. She picked up the phone.
"Hello?" she said. "Oh hi, June. . . Yes. . . Oh gosh, really?"
James sat on the floor with Lady, listening.
"Do you think she jumped the fence?" James's mother asked. "How odd. Yes. . . Oh we will. . . We'll keep an eye out. . . I hope she comes back, soon. I'm sure she will. . . Yeah. . . Uh-huh. . . It is. . . Alright. . . Uh-huh."
She hung up.
"Christ," his mother said, returning. "Gerta ran off. She got out of the fence."
"She did?" James said. Gerta was the neighbors' white pit-bull. Two years old.
"God damn," Rick said.
9
The next night, James's mother went out shopping with his sister. Rick worked late. The trailer was empty.
Slowly, quietly, James slipped into his mother and Rick's bedroom. He opened her insulin syringe disposal box. He pulled out two syringes, then went into the bathroom, filling them both with bleach. He took them into his room, then put them in his sock drawer beneath two socks.
Lady came in.
James turned on the T.V.. The mutt got on the bed.
James joined her.
10
James took the insulin syringes to school the next day. He kept close to Travis, waiting for a chance to strike.
Many came.
Each time, James did nothing.
11
A week passed.
James thought of the syringe, always.
At school, each day, he kept it in his pocket. He stayed close to Travis. More opportunities came.
Each time, as before, James did nothing.
12
It was night.
Blue moonlight shone through the window.
James laid with Lady in his bed. Tears ran down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he said to her.
She nuzzled him. She licked his tears.
"I'm sorry."
12
Time went slow.
James quit bringing the syringes.
He lost sleep.
He continued following Travis and Lewis, thinking.
Waiting.
13
"I asked my mom," Travis said, "and she said you can all have a sleepover at my house this weekend."
It was Friday's first recess. The three boys were at the playground's farthest part.
"Really?" Lewis asked.
"Yeah," Travis said.
"I'll ask my mom!" Lewis said.
Travis looked at James.
"I'll ask, too," James said.
14
James's mother agreed to the sleep over later that night.
After dinner, in his room, on his bed, James held Lady close, the T.V. off.
"I'm gonna miss you," he said. His eyes were wet. Swollen.
The mutt nuzzled him, whining.
"Maybe mom will take pictures of you," he said. "Maybe I'll look at them in jail."
He hugged her, wiping his tears on her fur.
It felt warmer — softer — than ever.
15
The next morning, James's mother drove him to Travis's mobile home. Travis was on the porch when they pulled up, plastic rifle in hand.
"You got everything?" James's mother asked. She ashed her cigarette.
"Yeah," James said.
His mother said nothing. James grabbed his bag of clothes out of the backseat then got out. The two insulin syringes of bleach were tucked in his jeans.
"Have fun," she said.
James walked over to Travis as his mother pulled out of the driveway. Travis stood up. James's mother drove off.
"Lewis's mom said he couldn't come," Travis said.
"Okay," James said.
Travis grinned. "Come on," he said, pointing the plastic gun at James. "There's lots to do."
The two went inside.
16
Hours passed.
The boys played Travis's Nintendo, watched T.V. and ate lunch. They played in the trash-strewn back yard and in the tree house Travis's mother's boyfriend had built for him two years ago. Neither made mention of the circle.
Evening fell.
Travis's mother fed the two dinner. "Where are you two sleeping?" she asked.
"Can we sleep in the tree house?" Travis asked.
"I don't think so," she said.
"Please!" Travis exclaimed. "James won't fall out."
"I won't," James said.
Travis's mother rolled her eyes. "You better not. Neither one of you."
Travis looked at James, grinning.
James grinned back.
17
Travis spoke loudly in the tree-house. He cursed. James sat still, listening, his hands cold, his heart racing.
Outside, the moon looked pale and small.
"I see ghosts from up here," Travis said. "At night, I see them."
"What do they look like?"
"Like fuckin' lights," Travis said. "I see them in neighbors's houses. Sometimes in my house. Sometimes they move through the fuckin' fence."
"Are they ever by the shed?"
"No," Travis said. "Hell no. They're not! They don't get close to that."
"Yeah," James said.
James eyed the tree-house entrance.
Travis kept talking.
James stuck his cold hand in his pocket, feeling the insulin syringes. He grabbed one. He held it tight. His hand shook.
"What's wrong with you?" Travis suddenly asked.
"Nothing," James said.
"You want to go see it in the dark?" Travis asked. "It's different in the dark."
"Okay," James said.
"Don't fall like Lewis!" Travis said.
"I won't," James said.
"Come on then," Travis said.
18
The two walked to the shed together though the moonlit dark. Travis opened the door. James looked in. The circle was there, turning with stars.
Whispering.
"Those are their eyes," Travis said. "Those are the dogs' eyes."
James stared.
"Watch it," Travis said. "Watch what happens."
James watched. The whispering grew louder.
The shed then faded — all of it, as if having never been there. James spun around. Travis's house was gone. All houses were gone. There was only dark ground, the moon above, the distant mountains, and the circle.
Turning.
Whispering.
"It happens when you're with it at night," Travis said.
James stood up. He looked over the land. In the distance, against the dark, the mountains looked like old skin.
The circle kept turning.
A soft wind gusted against them.
The whispering went on.
"It makes everything go away sometimes," Travis said. "Then it comes back."
James looked over the emptiness, his face stricken.
Travis laughed, pale in the moonlight.
"Told you," he said. "If we walked far enough, we'd walk where the city was, and you'd only see ground. There wouldn't be even trees."
James felt sick.
"It'll come back," Travis said. "When it's supposed to."
James said nothing. The two stood still, staring at in silence.
19
Morning came.
James awoke on the couch in Travis's living room. He rubbed his eyes. The T.V. was on.
"Wake up," Travis said from across the room.
James yawned. He heard Travis's mother in the kitchen.
"You snore," Travis said.
James felt his body. He was still in his clothes. He reached to his pocket, quickly.
The insulin syringes were still there.
"James's up!" Travis called to his mother.
"Does he eat eggs?" Travis's mother called back.
"Yeah," James said.
"Toast?"
"Yeah," James said.
He looked at Travis. The boy's eyes were fixed on the T.V.
"Did we dream that?" James asked.
"No," Travis said.
20
A week passed.
James quit bringing the syringes to school.
At night, he took out Lady to play ball in the yard more often. He brushed her more. He petted her longer.
He ate less.
He slept less.
He felt sick, always.
"Do you want to come over again?" Travis asked him one day. "Lewis was over yesterday."
"No," James said.
"Why not?" Travis asked. "Are you scared?"
"No," James said.
"I bet you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"Liar."
"Screw you."
Travis laughed. "You were always scared," he said.
21
It was Tuesday.
The sky was bright and blue.
James waited at the bus stop. The bus came. James got on. The insulin syringes were in his pocket. He no longer felt sick.
The bus stopped at Lewis's stop. Lewis got on and sat by James.
"You look mad!" Lewis said.
"I'm not," James said.
"You look like it, though," Lewis said.
He offered James candy.
James declined.
The bus stopped at Travis's stop. The kids got on, one after the other.
James held an insulin syringe tight, watching for him.
He didn't see him.
He kept staring.
The last kid got on. The bus doors stopped.
No Travis.
He let go of the syringe, slipping his hand out. He sighed.
The bus went forward.
22
A day passed.
Travis didn't return.
Lewis asked teachers about him.
No one knew anything.
Then, on the evening news, Travis's face appeared. "Oh my gosh!" James's mother said. "That's your friend, Travis!" The newsman said his parents had reported him missing. It gave a hot-line number for tips.
James petted Lady, watching.
He said nothing.
23
More days passed.
Travis remained gone.
"I think that circle got him," Lewis said.
"Maybe," James said.
"Do you think it's still there?" Lewis asked.
"Maybe," James said.
"We can't go check, can we?"
"No," James said.
"Maybe we'll never know," Lewis said.
"Maybe not," James said.
24
A month passed.
Everyone began referring to Travis in the past-tense. His last year's school picture was pasted on the walls of Bailey's Grocery, by the entrance. A child psychologist and cop came and spoke to James's class. The child psychologist talked about grief and fear. The cop spoke of safety and the danger of adults one didn't know.
James didn't listen or care.
He heard nothing more of missing dogs. Gerta — the neighbor's pit bull — remained gone. James mother called Travis's mother a few times. James heard Travis's mother wailing through the phone. Weeping.
"You never talk to strangers," his mother told him, later.
"I know."
"You never go with them. You never do what they ask you. Don't even get near them."
"I know."
Sometimes, when alone, James laughed. At school, on the playground, he often caught himself laughing.
"What's so funny?" Lewis would ask.
"Nothing," James would say.
25
It was night.
James was with Lady in the yard, tennis ball in hand. The air was cool and crisp and smelled of dew. The moon was out. The sky was cloudless.
James tossed the ball to the neighbor's fence, but not over. Lady ran for it, bit it, then brought it back.
James smiled at her. He raised the ball up, wiggling it in front of the her face. Lady whined for it.
Then James noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
Something moving.
He turned his head and looked, lowering the ball.
He squinted.
Then he saw it:
A circle — darker than the rest — full of stars, slowly spinning. Lady looked at it. She whined. James watched her as she drew closer, sniffing.
His chest tightened. His breath hitched.
And then — like the inrushing of wind into a long empty room — he finally understood.
His smiled. He approached the dark and spinning circle, ball in hand, slowly.
He stood before it. He looked into it.
The stars shimmered. He heard the sound — the whispering, the whistling. A choir of pain.
He looked at Lady.
She looked at him.
He held the ball out for her, let her sniff it, then threw it in.