Hiding Away with Pill Bugs

by Kaylee Lowe

I swing my leg over the bunk bed I share with my brother Jamie.
I sleep on the top- my nose touches the popcorn ceiling.

I’m eight years old, and our house burnt down last month.
Now we live in a trailer that mom hates. But I like the neighbor boys.

I shove Jamie, “Danny and Chris are probably already at the creek!
I’m leaving without you!” I call over my back as the screen door slams.

I stumble through the tree line, mud flaked across my
sun-tanned face. I see Danny, blonde hair streaked with soil.

Chris is knee-deep in creek water smacking frogs with stones.
He once caught a Copperhead with his bare hands and killed it.

Weeds cling to our skinny frames as we catch tadpoles,
and fireflies go down in the polluted grey and purple sky

I trudge home with the stars, empty my pockets of worms and rocks. When I climb the metal steps of
the camper, the door swings open.

“Where the living hell have you been?” my mother screeches,
“And why are you covered in shit?” I shrink in her shadow.

I only get two slaps with the spoon. Our Rottweiler tries
to nudge his head between us and gets a slap of his own.

“Go hose yourself off and take the damn dog with you.” As I scrub
my leg, a pill bug escapes my shorts. I follow him into the darkness.