Page 2 of The Sixth Spring

That felt too dramatic.

He tongued the inside of his mouth, feeling the crooked angles of his bottom teeth. There he found a small, fibrous piece of orange that had stuck. He forced it free with his tongue, then spit when it hit his taste buds again.

He realized at that moment what it actually tasted like.

In high school, despite his height and his ability to return a punch, a few times the boys had cornered him and fucked with him.

One time, when he was fourteen, his busted lip had gone bad from the gravel and dirt they’d held him down in. It had oozed pus for days while he’d doctored it with peroxide and Neosporin, lancing and draining it when it needed it. He’d tasted that sick by accident a few times.

It was exactly what the orange had tasted like.

Like an infected wound.

Chapter 2

“Could ya put those in the backseat and buckle them, darlin’?” Mrs. Peterson asked. Will had her trunk open, and was about to start loading the groceries in. He paused.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He hefted the paper bag up to take it around to the backseat of her minivan.

The vehicle had seen better days. Will eyed the jagged, rusty edges of the car door bottom. He’d cut his leg on one before, and was not eager to repeat the experience. He kept a distance between him and the rust as he started loading the groceries in.

Mrs. Peterson usually had three kids in tow, but today she was alone.

“Mercale Street’s flooded,” Mrs. Peterson said as he worked. “Hadta go all the way ‘round to Woodward to get here. Woodward’s hell on the suspension so, can’t have everything bouncin’ round on the way home.”

Will had never owned a car, but he’d seen the state of Woodward. It was an old, unpaved road that over years had worn rough with potholes. The holes in it now were big enough to swallow a car whole if one wasn't careful.

“Flooded?” Will asked. There were a lot of places that flooded during the rainy season, but they hadn’t hit that part of summer yet. They were in the dead heat of it, and most of the land was dried out and cracking.

Mrs. Peterson nodded, snapping her gum. “Didn’t ya see? It was all over the news.”

Will didn’t have a TV either. “Oh.”

When he finished with the groceries and came up out of the hot, musty smell of the car, he turned to look in the direction of Mercale Street.

“Just past the bend,” Mrs. Peterson pointed, “total mess. Fucking idiots.”

“The developers?” Will guessed.

“Mhm. City folk think they’re gonna dig up gold,” she scoffed derisively. “Jokes on them, it’s just a bunch of swamp shit and water under this dirt.”

She tapped her dusty gator boots on the pavement.

Will finished loading the gallons of water into the footwell of her backseat, then closed the door. Mrs. Peterson tipped him with a crinkled, damp dollar bill.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Will said and tucked the dollar in his pocket. It wasn’t much, but Mrs. Smith had tipped him earlier too, so Will would be able to buy lunch today.

“Your place ain’t north of Mercale is it?” Mrs. Peterson asked as she slid into the driver seat, her huge, rhinestone sunglasses dropping down onto her face.

“No ma’am, south.”

“Small blessings. I think they hit a spring.” She clucked her tongue, reaching up to fluff her fried, blonde hair. “Well you have a good day now, don’t work too hard!” She gave him a small nod, and then reached over to crank her radio up.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Will said again, and stepped back.

The squeal of whatever was wrong with the engine started up, shrill and unsettling. Will nabbed her cart to take back into the air conditioning of the store. He’d been outside less than five minutes, and he felt painfully dry.

As he headed back across the lot, his eyes drifted to beyond the stretch of concrete, to Mercale Street. Had they really hit a spring?