June drew by, warm days I ran through like the backfields. When the cicadas started to sing, school paused for summer recess, letting their cacophony overwhelm. I had nothing to do during the long, summer days but ride my bike and hope that my father came home for dinner. One afternoon, my friend Jackson took me down to the lake, shimmying off his shorts before jumping into the freezing water. I followed Jackson, wading into the murky blue, my bones chilled. But Jackson was two years older, and often got distracted by the girls in town with their braids and cut-off shorts. He got out of the water calling after the girls in frilly swimsuits, leaving my shorts bunched in the sand and me shivering on the shore. I didn’t go to the lake with Jackson again. Mom said that was for the best, that the water could be contaminated, too dangerous to swim in, too detrimental to your health. I didn’t see any danger, only the back of Jackson’s head as he ran into the distance. 

Mom says to not stray too far from home. She says that I need to always be in earshot of her whistle. But her whistle is quite loud. 

In July, I played at Hudson’s house. Hudson and I played baseball together in the spring, and his mom drove me to practice on Tuesdays. In the car, she said, I know how it is, tell your mom I’m happy to help her out whenever she needs. I told Hudson’s mom thank you, because that seemed like the right thing to say. 

Hudson’s house was abundant. His mom bought him a new bike from the Target thirty minutes away and its tires never need to be pumped. Hudson never got in trouble for talking in class and always had his homework done on time, neatly filed away in his blue folder. Even though Hudson’s mom thought my mom was going through a hard time, and even though Hudson’s mom isn’t my mom, Hudson’s mom treated me as she did Hudson. When she called us to eat a snack, she laid out two plates and carefully slathered jam on two pieces of toast. Sliced fruit, little cheese blocks, and plastic glasses of apple juice always accompanied the toast. She didn’t set a plate for herself until Hudson and I started eating. 

On the last day of July, I rode my bike to Hudson’s house and we walked through the dry fields toward the towering obstruction. Jackson used to talk about the abandoned chemical plant, about all the 8th graders who hung out in its valley after school. He said at night the girls left, scared of the shadows created by corroding metal and moonlight. He said our parents’ parents probably died in the obstruction, their ghosts waiting for us to return. 

When the weeds under our feet became disintegrated asphalt, our eyes drew up what was left of the chemical plant. Jagged iron bars sticking up through the cracked concrete, crows circling, the vultures of our adolescence. The greatest thing my home had to offer, the remnants of productivity and creation, left for Hudson and I to wander. What was once impressive in its own right was now just a tool the light used to cast wicked shadows in late afternoons. I did not see any ghosts, or even any rats for that matter. Life did not exist in this dystopia. 

Our walk home silent, we ambled back to Hudson’s house blanketed by the orange sky.

Mom doesn’t butter my toast before her own, but she does whistle before dinner every night. 

School still hadn’t started by August, when the days were long and the sun a deep red. After Hudson’s wheezing engulfed his smile, he moved away. His parents were worried about formaldehyde from lasting chemical hazards. So I ran through the fields alone, chased by the birds and only retrieved by Mom’s whistle. 

When I leave for the woods, Mom says to watch out for ticks. She doesn’t say anything about the carcinogens, or the hazardous waste, or the sharp steel and the rusted iron. Just the ticks in the restless grass.