The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) by Shea Berkley

asks.
    “I don’t know. It’s like…” There’s a big pause. “I don’t know. You seriously need to come over here.”
    Grandpa shares a quick glance with Grandma before pressing the button. “Okay. I’m on my way.”
    “I’ve never heard Reggie so upset,” Grandma says as Grandpa heads through the doorway.
    He stops and looks back at me. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”
    “Now, George,” Grandma warns. “He’s been through enough.”
    “He needs to get on with life,” he says, still staring at me. “Come on.”
    He leaves, expecting me to follow. I don’t want to think, let alone move, but I know an order when I’m given one, and like it or not, I find myself moving. He served in Vietnam. Saw combat. He’s the type who expects obedience even if you’re wounded and can’t see through the blood dripping into your eyes.
    I pull on a T-shirt, slip on some socks and shoes, and follow Grandma’s nod toward the back of the house. Once outside, I follow Grandpa’s voice. He and the dog that nearly bit me are waiting in a shed, surrounded by all sorts of machines and some more of those weird sculptures that are in the front yard. The dog hovers near Grandpa in a protective manner. I’m smart enough to keep my distance.
    On seeing me, Grandpa points to an ATV. “Ever driven one of these?”
    “No.”
    Grandpa tosses me a set of keys. “Time to learn.”
    When he says learn, he isn’t talking about teaching me first. He expects me to learn on the go. As he pulls away, his dog sprints ahead, and I turn on the hulking machine and follow.
    Grandpa shouts instructions army boot camp style, and I do my best, but I’m failing fast. I nearly give myself whiplash, sputtering along the dirt path that runs behind the house. I’m terrible at switching gears and grind them until my ears ring. After a while, we rumble into the forest. Grandpa stops and opens a gate, which is attached to a fence that zigzags between the trees and out of sight.
    “I got into the sheep business to keep the forest scrub from taking over,” Grandpa says, climbing back onto his ATV. “It cuts down on fire danger, which is always a worry with trees surrounding you.”
    A few minutes later, we pull into a small glen packed with sheep. Dozens of tiny brown dots of fluff outfitted with curved horns and lamb faces, look our way. Nothing seems out of place, but being new to the sheep business, I wouldn’t really know.
    A guy around my age sporting long, shaggy black hair, a man in his fifties wearing round glasses, and an old guy who’s as weathered as an ancient oak tree stand over a downed sheep. The men are a ladder of years. The younger guy only has to look at the older men to see his future self. Sheep herding is obviously a family business around here—one I’m not so keen to follow.
    On seeing us, the middle-aged man comes jogging over, along with five dogs. I barely miss running them over with my ATV before I manage to come to a bone-jarring stop.
    Grandpa rumbles up and shoots me a warning look—like I tried to run them all down. He greets the men while I get off my ATV and step one foot too close to that crazy dog. It bares its teeth and lets out a mean growl. I’ve had enough trauma lately, and I’m not about to let a dog bully me. I throw the mangy thing an angry look and snap out a command. “Sit.”
    The dog immediately sits amid a flutter of ear positions and sad, little whines. More whining joins his, and I notice the other dogs are sitting, too, confusion in their sad eyes. Everyone stares at me just as strangely.
    “What?” I ask.
    Grandpa calls his dog to him, but the dog only looks at me. He calls again, and finally the dog slinks away, tail between his legs.
    “Your grandmother never told me you had experience with dogs.”
    “I don’t.” I’ve never had a pet in my life. “Mom says I’m allergic.”
    Grandpa’s jaw twitches. “I think your mom’s full of it.”
    He’s probably right.