At the End of the Road by Grant Jerkins

Grace had placed the note in the mailbox that morning, otherwise she would not have dared such a maneuver. Even then, she had sat on the other side of the road, concealed in the corn for a good long time. To make sure. And although she had never been entirely sure, never entirely comfortable with this escalation of difficulty and dare in the treasure hunt game, she did it anyway, her instincts telling her that she was leading herself into sure danger. She did it for Kyle. To impress him, to prove to him that she wasn’t a baby, that she was deserving of his time and companionship. So she kept her eyes firmly on the mailbox just on the other side of the road. It was decrepit and the metal support post tilted drunkenly to the side like a tombstone heaved by the contractions of ground frost. The mailbox door hung open on rusted hinges like a broken jaw, old yellowed bills and circulars vomiting from it. Grace darted across the road, shoved the note far in the back, and was back hidden in the corn in less than three seconds.
    Kyle took another tack. He had to figure out a way to retrieve the note right under the eyes of the paralyzed man. There was no way he would acknowledge defeat, acknowledge that Grace had managed to place the next clue out of his reach. Even if it came down to a blatant dash-and-snatch, he would accomplish the task set before him.
    Grace smiled to herself in unspoken admiration as she watched Kyle set up and execute the retrieval.
    He circled back through the corn, emerged on the road well above the paralyzed man’s house, and began walking at the most leisurely of paces, as though he was maybe heading down the road to Sweetwater Reservoir to go swimming. This route took him directly in front of Patrick and Joel’s house—which was next door to the paralyzed man, separated by a plot of pole beans. He saw no sign of the Sewells and was glad for this. Patrick Sewell might not be actively seeking revenge on Kyle, but he likely wouldn’t let a golden opportunity to inflict misery pass him by either. It was just his nature.
    As he approached, Kyle was very much aware of the paralyzed man’s eyes watching him from the sloping, gently warped porch. As he got directly in front of the house, Kyle made a show of becoming aware that there was a person on the porch.
    “Howdy,” Kyle said.
    The paralyzed man nodded his head in curt acknowledgement, his eyes imperceptible behind slitted lids.
    Kyle then made a show of noticing the glut of sales papers, mailers, and grocery flyers advertising MoonPies and ground beef for sixty-nine cents a pound—all toned ochre by the heat, sun, and humidity.
    “Sir, would you want me to bring your mail up to you?”
    The paralyzed man took his time answering, as though mulling over the pros and cons of such an interaction. Finally, in an agreeable tone, he said, “That would be fine, girl. That would be just fine.”
    “Sir?”
    “Bring it, girl.”
    “I’m a boy.”
    “Boy. What I meant to say. Bring it.”
    Kyle took care in pulling out the mail, and when he spotted the folded note tucked to the rear, he grabbed it quick.
    Kyle walked up the snaking wheelchair ramp, carrying the armload of mail, Grace’s note palmed like a bribe. The wood ramp still smelled of the chemicals used to treat the lumber, and its newness stood out in dramatic contrast with the uneven planes of the weathered porch.
    The paralyzed man motioned to a small, pollen-stained glass-top table and Kyle dumped the mail there. “Mighty nice of you. ‘Boy.’”
    “It wasn’t no problem.”
    “Y’all them that lives right over yonder?”
    “Yessir.”
    “Two brothers and a little sister?”
    “Yessir.”
    “Yep. I’ve seen you all. Don’t bother nobody.”
    “Nosir.”
    “Christian?”
    “Yessir.”
    “’Course you are. Seen you in church.” The man paused, reflected, then added, “Not like them that lives right here next door. Sewells. They pose as Christians.” The paralyzed man