Page 16 of The Intruder

The girl is about the size of a nine- or ten-year-old, but there’s something in her eyes and her expression that makes me think she’s older than that—more like twelve or thirteen. Even in the dim glow of the flashlight, I can tell she is painfully thin. Her stringy shoulder-length red hair clings to her scalp, and she gazes up at me with gigantic blue eyes. She’s trembling, and I’m not sure it’s because of the cold or because she’s scared, but either way, she’s holding on to that knife for dear life.

I release my grip on the gun in my pocket. Even though this girl has a knife, I’m not going to threaten a twelve-year-old.

“Hi,” I say in the friendliest voice I can muster. I move the beam of the flashlight so that I’m not blinding her. “My name is Casey. I live in the cabin right over there.”

The girl just stares at me.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

No answer.

Part of me wonders if I should just leave her here. After all, I’m not excited to get stabbed. In the morning, when the phone lines start working again, I can call the police and report that I found a girl on my property. I’m sure somebody out there is looking for her.

But the reality is I don’t think this girl is going to hurt me. She’s just scared. And this toolshed is not a safe place. The door has already blown off, and now it’s becoming very cold and wet inside. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole shed collapsed during the night. What if I got up in the morning and found her seriously hurt or even dead? I would never forgive myself for walking away.

My father was the same way. Whenever we were on the road together, he would always pick up hitchhikers, even though I found it terrifying because my mom thought all hitchhikers were murderers. He used to say to me, Anyone who is hitchhiking is down on their luck. It could be you in the same position one day.

My father might be gone, but I can still learn from his life lessons. Even if he was wrong about the duct tape on windows.

“Listen,” I say, “I know you’re scared right now, but this toolshed is not stable. You can’t stay in here. But if you’d like, you can stay in my house for the night.”

I stand there, waiting for the girl to tell me yes or no or stab me. But she just sits there, clutching that knife.

“You can hold on to your knife, if you want.” I’m not enthusiastic about this concession, but if she’s scared, I doubt she’ll give it up. “But I really don’t think you should stay in this toolshed. You need to come into the house.”

Maybe it’s my imagination, but her expression softens the tiniest bit. Although she still isn’t talking.

“I won’t tell anyone you’re here.” I suspect anyone hiding in a stranger’s toolshed is not eager to be found. “I promise.”

She cocks her head to the side.

“Also,” I say, “I’ve got food. I’ve just made dinner.”

The girl’s expression instantly changes. She may not trust me, but she’s hungry. I can see it all over her face.

“And I’ve got cookies,” I add.

I said the magic words. The girl keeps her eyes pinned on me, but very slowly, she gets to her feet. I’m still holding the flashlight, and as she stands up, her coat falls open, giving me my first glimpse of her clothing. I let out a gasp.

This girl is covered in blood.

13

I take a step back, covering my mouth with my hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood. I can’t take my eyes off her.

It’s all over the front of her sweatshirt. It’s on her blue jeans. It’s on her hands. Yet she doesn’t seem to be injured. I don’t see any visible wounds at least, and she doesn’t look like she’s in pain.

“Are…are you okay?” I ask.

The girl shoots me a withering look. Despite her size, she is definitely not an elementary school kid. That look was very teenaged. She is scrawny, but she’s at least middle school–aged.

“Bloody nose,” she finally says in a voice I can barely make out over the sound of the wind.

As a former teacher, I have seen my fair share of bloody noses. Yes, there can be quite a lot of blood. It can get on your shirt, your pants, and even your hands. It can make a huge mess.

But I don’t think I have ever seen a nosebleed where somebody didn’t have any blood at all on their face.

The girl picks up the backpack at her feet and looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to lead the way to my house. I have, after all, invited her to stay with me. And it doesn’t feel right to leave her out in the cold just because she is covered in blood that I am increasingly certain is not her own.