2:11 PM, MONTPELIER, VERMONT, USA

Danny was lost. He had been picking strawberries near his mother, and had heard her humming a bright and cheery song a few minutes before. The ground was cold and dry, and the velvetgrass had overrun the patch of berries they had found. He had wanted to find the biggest berry, and saw a beautiful group of red dots a on a low hill a few yards away. Now he stood atop the hill, and looking around, could not see his mother’s bright yellow shawl amid the pines. He listened carefully, hoping to catch her nameless tune floating on the chilly autumn breeze, but heard nothing. He called out. He tried not to panic, and remembered his father’s advice on their last outing. His father was a woodsman, and had taken him into the forest a few times. Whenever he heard the wolves howl in the distance, he stepped closer to his father, who laughed his big, hearty laugh. “Danny boy, don’t be frightened. Wolves are cowardly sorts. They will not come near while your papa is around.” He watched his father follow streams and game trails, and was certain he could find his way home if he had to. “Momma!” he cried, and felt the panic rise in his belly, even as he chided himself. “You’re not a child Danny. You’re almost twelve now, and it’s time to be a man. Just be calm, and walk back to where you saw her last. She can’t have gone far.” He murmured to himself.
But what if she has? A certain sly voice said inside his head.
Nonsense, he replied. He was certain she would notice him missing any minute, and he would hear her sweet voice calling for him a short distance away. He walked carefully down the hill, keeping his pace even if only to prove to himself that he was not afraid. He walked along the patches of velvetgrass he had just seen, and into the clearing where his mother had been picking. It had only been a few minutes.
Or was it longer? a sniggering little voice asked him.
No, it had only been a few minutes, and he looked around, sure he would see the sunny yellow shawl bobbing up and down as momma stooped to pick the ripest strawberries. She had simply wandered a bit in her hunt for good pickings, as he had done. She would soon realize he was missing, and that would be that. They would return home and enjoy some chocolate by a warm fire, and he would tell her he’d been brave, that he hadn’t been frightened at all. She would smoothe his hair with her rough hands, and coo about his courage, looking misty eyed and repeating the little poem she used for times when he showed his independence.
Little Danny Shae,
born a summer day,
grew to a man
in less than a day.
He felt better, now needing only to find the shawl to make his vision come true. “Momma!” he cried, a little more quietly now, suddenly conscious of the howling silence in the woods around him. All the birds and insects had stopped making any noise, and he wondered at that. There’s a predator nearby, said a certain voice.
That spurred him. “Momma! Momma! Where are you momma!” His cries grew frantic, and tears blurred his vision. He began to jog around a wide circle, looking right and left and breathing heavily. He caught a glimpse of color on a hill behind a stand of fir trees, and ran to it. There she is, he thought. Silly of me to be frightened when she was so nearby. He began to feel sheepish, but remembered the chocolate, and the poem, and vowed to tell his mother he hadn’t been frightened after all. He danced gingerly over the tangled underbrush, slid briefly on a pile of old leaves, and stumbled up the hill. He found a large Loosestrife bush, covered with hundreds of little yellow sunbursts. It swayed and bobbed in the chilly breeze, mocking him, as if it were nodding at him. Yes, it seemed to say, I tricked you. I wear my blooms like a shawl, and I duck and sway like a berry picker. Aren’t I clever. He kicked the bush, snapping some branches and breaking off a few flowers, but with no real damage. It seemed even more mocking now. You can’t even hurt me little boy. Your futile kicks just make me laugh. At that moment, the entire bush rustled, shaking up and down just as if the bush were laughing at him. He felt blood rise to his face. Now anger and fear mixed, and became an unbearable heat within him. He looked down and saw a small game trail, leading down the opposite side of the hill. He half-remembered his father telling him that game trails usually lead to water. Perhaps his mother had gotten thirsty and walked to a nearby stream for a drink? Without any more hesitation, he bounded down the other side of the hill, running fast and hard, stomping the ground into submission with each step. As he ran, the pine branches seemed to reach out and whack him as he passed, aiming for his eyes and ears, and stinging with their sharp little needles. Surely thirst was the answer! He and his mother had been picking berries for quite awhile, and it was thirsty work. She had simply lost track of him after her drink. Maybe she was even lost, and couldn’t find her way back to the strawberry patch. He would be a hero! He had learned from papa about the game trails and the water, and he could help her get her bearings. He plowed ahead, deftly avoiding a grouping of sharp stones that jutted from beneath wet leaves. He danced back and forth across a tangle of roots between two large pines. Soon he heard the faint sound of water running over rocks, and followed a shallow gulley to a clearing. The stream trickled steadily over rocks, following a jagged, multileveled path through the forest. He stopped beside the stream, breathing hard. He looked around him in every direction, carefully turning a complete circle and scanning the wall of green needles dappled with white sunlight, precursor to winter’s gray chill. No shawl. She wasn’t there. She had disappeared, and he was alone.