Girl Runner by Carrie Snyder Page A

that power Father’s machine.
    The shortcut through the woods is narrow, a footpath rather than a lane or a road, and rarely used, not meant for horses. Tendrils of creeping vine cross it, and roots rise, and stones fresh from the earth. I am nimble and careful, my footsteps crisp, quick and light against the darkness of the woods, its shadows casting down on me like a spell I need to break. I’m coming to the far side, bursting from dark to light, from narrow to wide. I scarcely hesitate, passing from one to the other.
    The path gives onto a road that leads into town, and town is not far, not when you are running as fast as I am running.
    I can’t hear my thoughts over my breath coming harsh and regular. Running like this, this fast, this hard, fixes the strangest visions into my head. Glimpses become entire stories, full-blooded portraits. I see a groundhog waddle away from me, into the grass beside the road. I see a purple wildflower bend at my approach. I see the faces of three women standing on their front porch staring at me, their hair tucked beneath frilly caps, their mouths perplexed, their foreheads creased with disapproval. More houses, gone by in a rush. A stone in the road that etches the ball of my foot. A loose dog barking after me.
    I see the doctor’s son, who is my age and whom I know is named Peter after his father, playing in his yard with a ball. He is throwing the ball in the air and catching it in his hands.
    I see him turn at my approach. The ball drops from his hands to his bare feet. Mine are bare too. I see them as I reel to a stop before him, and stare down. Dusty skin of my own bare ankles, dirt crammed thickly between the toes. I gasp, “It’s Fannie. We need the doctor.”
    “He’s out,” says Peter.
    “But where?” I beg, blood rushing under my skin, flooding my skull, my hands on my knees, skirt swinging, bent over.
    Peter and I know each other from sharing a classroom at school, all the way through the grades. Peter says his father is tending to someone sick, and he knows who and where: in town, at the far edge. “I’ll take you,” he tells me, and instead of expressing thanks, I shout with impatience, “Well let’s go! Now! Hurry!”
    Peter’s mother has heard the commotion and she comes to the door. She doesn’t step all the way outside, and I can see a baby in her arms, one of Peter’s little sisters.
    “We’re going to find Father,” Peter tells her.
    His mother speaks sternly, or perhaps with fear. “Do not go inside that house. Do not go near it. Call for him from the street, do not knock or enter. Do you understand?”
    We nod.
    We run, and I am faster than Peter, which is no surprise. I’ve beaten every boy my age at running and throwing games. But I am glad to have him with me, not just to show me the way, which I could figure out for myself, but also because the burden of my message is lightened by his presence, by his willingness to join me. I slow my steps to give him the pretence of showing me the way. And in a way, he is. My breathing comes freer; I almost forget myself as I watch his bare feet just ahead of mine, beating down an easier path.
    Here we are, shouting from the yard. I see yellow quarantine papers hammered to the door, and the doctor coming out. He’s afraid, I see, because his son is here.
    “It’s Fannie,” I cry. “She’s, she’s . . .” But I can’t go on and say it. Peter keeps his distance, not just from the quarantined house, but from me. He is a step and then another gone from me.
    Here I am, alone again, carrying my message alone, dragging it behind me like a stone.
    Peter is watching me, the doctor is watching me, the lady passing in the street and her little boy are watching me, with pity. I have never before been aware of myself as a subject of pity, and I hate it so much that I might ignite.
    “I’ll come when I can,” says the doctor. “I’ve got my horse. I’ll be there within the hour.”
    And at that, I turn and