The Intruder - 12

12

I stare at the girl huddled in the corner of my toolshed, the knife gripped in her right hand. And it isn’t a butter knife or anything like that. It’s a switchblade of some sort.

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.