The ground out past the willow pulsed.

I remember how the moss peeled back to show what looked to be a grey pink, vainy pit,

which was slick like raw flesh.

I was just a boy, maybe seven, chasing a rabbit through the wet grass.

It wasn't mine, or at least I don't remember having one.

The rabbit ran ahead, and before I could call it back,

it slipped on the moss and tumbled forward.

There was a wet tearing sound, and it disappeared down into the pulsing pit.

I remember the way the moss fell back over the hole

like closing lips and I ran back to the house screaming. For years I'd wake up in the middle

of the night sweating through my sheets, that same nightmare keeping me from a good night's sleep.

When I called Ruth, I was sitting in the server room, watching the reflection of the fluorescent

lights pulse in my coffee.

I let the phone buzz out on the desk.

She was my nearest neighbor growing up.

She lived half a mile down the track and always brought casseroles over when mom passed.

I remember that she kept an eye on me when dad got too rough.

I'd been ignoring calls from home for years.

I'd blocked my dad after I'd answered to him yelling about leaving him with a broken

tractor and no one to fix it. I've been dodging her calls lately too. Credit card bills were

doubling before I could pay them back. My rent kept jumping each year and I didn't have it

in me to lie and say I was fine.

...