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Description
Mullerville is a small town at the heart of the Texas prairie. The townsfolk like to joke about it being God’s first mistake, so they really don’t know when it all started. Even if the nation was involved in a war, none of the townsfolk would be moved nor affected deeply by it. Isolated yet it still had its own sense of security, or that’s at least what Megan would have liked to believe, living here now a thousand kilometers from home.

“Madame Megan”, the way she had been addressed for the past two decades. Living in the comfort of her luxurious home in Albany, England. Being married to a wonderfully successful criminal justice lawyer had its pleasures. Yet with it come promises of support from superficial friends and others who hate you for your place in society. She loved her husband dearly for what he had provided her; a wonderfully large and elegant home among the loveliest woods of the world, an array of servants to serve her, and with a enough money to satisfy her basic needs and luxuries that millions of others only die dreaming for. All those meant nothing once her husband passed away. Men looked upon rich widows as an easy pathway to a luxurious life. The only solace she found in her loss was the fact that her husband had left her enough monetary support for her to start her life anew. So she had by moving to a different country leaving the comforts of her home and moving to Mullerville. A complete opposite of what she was used to.

Mullerville had only one general store and one beauty salon, which doubled as a barbershop. Long gone are the days she frequented Harrods to shop and have her hair done at “Mademoiselle Boutique”. She loved how the people of this town had that “Don’t Monkey with Tradition” attitude, apparent from the fact that every single building looks like sisters and no one bothers to paint them. Houses show the ages of families who had lived and bred there. If you counted the different types of wood that had been added on and taken off each establishment would give you a rough idea of how old a house is. Of course she didn’t know much about wood but could tell from the textures and color of the pieces of which ones came in a group and which ones came later. Her little wooden shack lay by the river.

Here again on Sunday afternoon, she was resting on the remnants of a tree pulled from the earth by a storm, overshadowed by the shade of a large tree. Living in England she had never expected to see such greenery in the middle of a region she had associated with deserts. She was wearing a long white dress, the hem soaking along with her pale feet in the warm river water. The straw sun hat she had worn to protect her face, which was easily prone to burn, was resting on the grassy knolls of the riverbank. There was a soft delicate summer breeze that was a kind solace on this warm day. In the distance she thought she heard the laughter’s of a child. Even though the Glen Ellen Country Day School was only ten miles away, she didn’t expect any child to be anywhere here on a Sunday afternoon.

Usually at Mullerville every family goes to church together as a good Christian family, that ruled out the idea of any children skipping school to come escape here. She had long lost her ties with God. She just lost touch you could say, after the day of her husband’s death resulting from a fatal car wreck, she never set her foot back in a church. She didn’t know if it was the fact that every time she walked by a church she saw her late husband in his magnificent black suit with the grim reaper’s smile on his tanned Indian skin. He rested in the wooden confinements of a five foot ten inch box, long enough to hold the shell of his soul, resting in the white belly of the church for all the world to witness his demise. She was angered by the fact that the people who had showed up to show their regards were not utterly concerned with the fact that she had lost her husband, but were there as if it was just another social obligation. Miss Thompson, who drops her husband like last summers fashion line.
“Don’t worry Megan, a pretty bird like you will have men running after you as soon as we walk out of the church” as she would adjust the black Donna Karen dress she bought just to come to the funeral.

Then there was Monsieur Poynette, the French womanizer who didn’t wait a second to ask her out for dinner and offer his false words of sympathy and promises of his large elegant French bed.
“Oh Megan, you look wonderful tonight” smiling his chauvinistic smile.
“Thank you”, looking for someone else to talk to.
“You sure you wouldn’t like to come over to my châteaux for a drink?”
“No, thanks for the offer”

She heard more laughter and slowly raised herself to her feet. She picked up her white sandals and swirled them in the water to wash the mud off, and picked up her sun hat and started walking towards the source of the noise. It appeared to come from within the conclaves of the Three Musketeers. The Three Musketeers were three pairs of trees that seemed to reach up to one point in the skies as if with their swords drawn proclaiming their creed, “One for all, and all for One”. She always walked by the Three Musketeers on her way home but had never actually stopped to ever see what was hidden within the green arms of this trio. As her bare feet lead into this hidden world the laughter of the child she had heard earlier got louder and sharper. As she brushed the green leaves and branches of her face and walked in she saw Mac R. McAllister for the first time. His overalls and shirt were rolled up and scantily thrown on the roots of one of the Musketeers. Mac was a skinny, knob-kneed boy, covered with freckles from his head to the extent of his body that she could see him above the water he was wading in. There was a little brown dog swimming along with him chasing him through the little pond.

“Come on Pooch, Come on Pooch”, Mac yelled his hands splashing water as he waded through the water.

The boy’s laughter was now complimented with the small yelps of the little brown furry beast. She looked at this little white freckled boy wadding through this watery confinement as if this was all he needed to satisfy his happiness. Children always brought her a great joy, even though she could never have any of her own. She had wanted to adopt a child, but she and her late husband never actually got right down to the paperwork. She regrets it now. She smiled looking at Mac enjoying the day in the comforts of water. For a moment she caught the glimpse of Mac’s blue eyes, she could almost see his eyes bulge out of its sockets with the shock of finding some one staring at him and Pooch. There gaze lasted mere seconds before he slipped on a little rock and splashed backward with his freckled butt rising like the fin of a whale. His wet brown head resurfaced like the head of a whale looking for the whaling ship. They stared at each other for what seemed like ages.

“Hello”, she chose to break the ice with a smile on her face.
“Hi”, looking up towards this foreign unexpected voice.
“What you up to?” her hands folded behind her back.
“Why?” with raised eyebrow and a squinted forehead.
“Well I am the only one who comes to the river in the afternoon”
“This is Crick! I have been here ever since I was nine” his nose flaring.
“Oh do you now?”
“Yes, and if you don’t go away I will make Pooch bite you” one of his feet stepped on a sharp pebble and he quickly moved to find a better spot to plant his feet.
“Oh he looks adorable” Pooch the little pup was now resting on top of a little tree stump looking at both of them. His fur ruffled from him trying to dry himself out. His beady black eyes staring back at this tall woman standing before it.
“No he is a mean dog. He will tear you to pieces” a little angry at pooch for acting so calm. His life could be in danger.
“I think he likes me”
“What do you want?” not finding it a satisfactory reason for her to stay.
“Nothing”, Megan laughed. This kid was adorable.
“Don’t laugh at me. My dad knows the sheriff, they have dinner all the time”
“The mayor is a good friend of mine”, Children always acted like grown ups with powers of authority and who they knew and how they are invincible. What a wonderful feeling isn’t it? To be invincible.
“So. The sheriff has a gun you know. I saw him use it on a cow. The cow didn’t like it”
“What’s your name?” Funny she though how as you grow older and find out more about the world the more insecure and the more fragile you become. You take fewer risks. You some how don’t start living life completely anymore.
“Mac R. McAllister. Everyone calls me Mac. I am sharpest kid in town you know”
“I am sure you are. You seem like a strong boy coming here all alone”
Dimples appeared on the side of Mac’s face with a smile, “Oh I am”.
He almost stood up to show his strong young body but realized he was stark naked and blushed faster than a chameleon changes color.

“You didn’t see anything!” feeling his cheeks fill with the flow of warm blood.
“No Mac, I didn’t”, hiding her laughter.
“Can I put my clothes on?” his eyes relaxed and both eyebrows raised in a silent plead.
“Go ahead”
“Are you going to close your eyes or what?” not completely trusting her yet.
“Yes I will” closing her eyes tightly.
“Promise you won’t open them?”
“I promise” she covered her eyes with the palms of her hand.

Her eyes shut to the world, she could hear the trail of water that Mac’s body left walking out of the little pool. He heard his running footsteps and the rustling of clothes as he put them on.

“You can see now” he can trust her now. She didn’t look.

She opened her eyes to look at Mac once again. Mac stood before her in a filthy faded overall jean that was two sizes too big for him, that would slightly drag on the ground. From the corners of the bottom of his overall she could see little fingers of his dirty brown bare feet. He was wearing, of what remained of a white t-shirt now covered with mud and dirt. His long wet hair sticking on his forehead like the limbs of an octopus.
Clothes, not necessarily the best fit or style but good enough to fulfill its purpose of covering up the nakedness that we all are born with. Yet as the years pass away and we grow older, the clothes serve a new purpose. To hide the insecurities of one, by wearing clothes like the feathers of a peacock to attract or even distract one from a fragile and many times empty soul of one.

“Do you want to see my Crick collection?”
“Your what?” she wondered what he had to show her.
“Crick collection”, and held up a large jar full of water and filled with what looked like little frogs in it.

He slowly worked his way around the little ecliptic water pool. Trudging his way through the fallen branches wedged into the mud. The shadows of the arms of the musketeers passing like black beams off his young face as he walked closer to her. He stopped about two feet away from her, still a little hesitant about the presence of this stranger. He held out the jar once again in front of her face and she reached for it he drew it back.
“What’s your name?”
“Megan”, she said with a smile.
“Ok!”
“Their names are Bill and George”, and gave the jar to her. She held the jar up in the tiny rays of sunlight and looked at the little green warts in this glass cage. Trapped within the confinements of this little circular jar with only each other for company. One of the frogs was smaller than the other one and had its little webbed feet planted on the edge of the glass as if looking for a deeper meaning for life than its current condition. Looking for a way out, something higher than this plane of existence.

“Do you come here often Mac?”
“No! Only when I want to get away from Mom or school.”
“You don’t have school today, isn’t it Sunday?”
“I don’t like church” his fidgeting eyes looking around.
“Why not?” She gave back the jar to Mac and looked at Mac’s blue eyes waiting for his response.
“I don’t like the people there” he looked inside the jar to make sure the frogs are still in there.
“Why not?” Megan looked at this child once again. A child barely more than ten, at the most maybe eleven, who had just summed up her own idea of god. The fact that god doesn’t need to be glamorized in buildings or structures and is a private relationship between each human and god.
“Well you know Mr. Muller?” he looked at Megan’s eyes for the first time directly.
“The Mayor?” surprised to be stared down by the boy.
“Yes, he wants make the school bigger”, still holding the gaze.
“School is a good thing”, Children do seem to have all the answers to one’s questions in the simplest of ways. Children do live the life that we all are supposed to as humans. Without prejudice or hate.
“I don’t want to go to school. My dad didn’t either. I want to be like my dad”.
“Well is that why you don’t go to church?”
“No” he had already told her he doesn’t like church. Why is she asking again?
“What else than?” looking for a better reason. She brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead.
“Just the people. They all go just because they have to. Last week I caught Mr. Thompson the grocery store owner sleeping in church. God talks to me here more. He listens to my prayers and helps me have fun too”.

Megan though of how children pursue happiness in the simplest of tasks. No concern for what clothes they wear, or where they live or what they do. Just the simple fact that they could wake up everyday with the sun shining on their face would be enough of an aphrodisiac to get them through the day and night. Who can forget the boundless energy they have. The innate urge to go out and try anything.

“I have to go home, I am hungry” he had to go home before her parents got home from church.
“Me too” she lied too, she had to go get packed for tomorrow.
“This place is our little secret right?” extending his right hand.
“Yes it is. Just me and you”, children are so secretive of their prized possessions. She shook his little hand as an acknowledgment of the secrecy of this place.
“And Pooch”
“Yes and Pooch” she smiled.
“Are you going home too?”
“Yes I have to get some rest, I have a long day tomorrow.” She hated Monday mornings when she had to go for her chemotherapy at the hospital.
“What’s tomorrow?”
“I have to go to the hospital to see a doctor”
“Are you sick?”
“In a way I am,” does he even know what cancer is?
“Are you going to die?”
“I don’t know yet” she wondered sometimes the same thing too.
“My uncle John had to go to the hospital a lot too last year. They said he had some thing in his head. I always said he is crazy though. Those doctors couldn’t fix him.” He started picking his nose and wiped it on the right sleeve of his shirt.
“Is he okay?”
“No he died. Took him to church. Uncle John hated church too. I don’t know why they took him to a place he hated. Do you like going to church?” he didn’t understand why everyone was crying. He thought church was a happy place. His mom was crying and still kept saying his uncle was going to a better place. He thought they all were jealous of him.
“Sometimes, I like this place more, like you do. To escape from the world.”
“Well I have to go home now. Come on Pooch” he really hoped his parents aren’t back yet.

Mac looked for Pooch who was now digging a little hole and looked up much to its dismay to his companion. Mac darted for the old dirt road that lead to his home, a fifty-five acre farm, and Pooch followed hot on his heels.

“I will see you Megan. Bye!” he screamed as he picked up his pace.

Megan looked up at the little dust trail this boy left behind. Megan sighed. She hated going to see those doctors. She wondered what else they had in store for her. She gathered herself up and started walking towards the little wooden shack of her home. She looked back once again at the three musketeers reaching up for the sky with their arms out and heads held high, full of hope.

Description
Mullerville is a small town at the heart of the Texas prairie. The townsfolk like to joke about it being God’s first mistake, so they really don’t know when it all started. Even if the nation was involved in a war, none of the townsfolk would be moved nor affected deeply by it. Isolated yet it still had its own sense of security, or that’s at least what Megan would have liked to believe, living here now a thousand kilometers from home.

“Madame Megan”, the way she had been addressed for the past two decades. Living in the comfort of her luxurious home in Albany, England. Being married to a wonderfully successful criminal justice lawyer had its pleasures. Yet with it come promises of support from superficial friends and others who hate you for your place in society. She loved her husband dearly for what he had provided her; a wonderfully large and elegant home among the loveliest woods of the world, an array of servants to serve her, and with a enough money to satisfy her basic needs and luxuries that millions of others only die dreaming for. All those meant nothing once her husband passed away. Men looked upon rich widows as an easy pathway to a luxurious life. The only solace she found in her loss was the fact that her husband had left her enough monetary support for her to start her life anew. So she had by moving to a different country leaving the comforts of her home and moving to Mullerville. A complete opposite of what she was used to.

Mullerville had only one general store and one beauty salon, which doubled as a barbershop. Long gone are the days she frequented Harrods to shop and have her hair done at “Mademoiselle Boutique”. She loved how the people of this town had that “Don’t Monkey with Tradition” attitude, apparent from the fact that every single building looks like sisters and no one bothers to paint them. Houses show the ages of families who had lived and bred there. If you counted the different types of wood that had been added on and taken off each establishment would give you a rough idea of how old a house is. Of course she didn’t know much about wood but could tell from the textures and color of the pieces of which ones came in a group and which ones came later. Her little wooden shack lay by the river.

Here again on Sunday afternoon, she was resting on the remnants of a tree pulled from the earth by a storm, overshadowed by the shade of a large tree. Living in England she had never expected to see such greenery in the middle of a region she had associated with deserts. She was wearing a long white dress, the hem soaking along with her pale feet in the warm river water. The straw sun hat she had worn to protect her face, which was easily prone to burn, was resting on the grassy knolls of the riverbank. There was a soft delicate summer breeze that was a kind solace on this warm day. In the distance she thought she heard the laughter’s of a child. Even though the Glen Ellen Country Day School was only ten miles away, she didn’t expect any child to be anywhere here on a Sunday afternoon.

Usually at Mullerville every family goes to church together as a good Christian family, that ruled out the idea of any children skipping school to come escape here. She had long lost her ties with God. She just lost touch you could say, after the day of her husband’s death resulting from a fatal car wreck, she never set her foot back in a church. She didn’t know if it was the fact that every time she walked by a church she saw her late husband in his magnificent black suit with the grim reaper’s smile on his tanned Indian skin. He rested in the wooden confinements of a five foot ten inch box, long enough to hold the shell of his soul, resting in the white belly of the church for all the world to witness his demise. She was angered by the fact that the people who had showed up to show their regards were not utterly concerned with the fact that she had lost her husband, but were there as if it was just another social obligation. Miss Thompson, who drops her husband like last summers fashion line.
“Don’t worry Megan, a pretty bird like you will have men running after you as soon as we walk out of the church” as she would adjust the black Donna Karen dress she bought just to come to the funeral.

Then there was Monsieur Poynette, the French womanizer who didn’t wait a second to ask her out for dinner and offer his false words of sympathy and promises of his large elegant French bed.
“Oh Megan, you look wonderful tonight” smiling his chauvinistic smile.
“Thank you”, looking for someone else to talk to.
“You sure you wouldn’t like to come over to my châteaux for a drink?”
“No, thanks for the offer”

She heard more laughter and slowly raised herself to her feet. She picked up her white sandals and swirled them in the water to wash the mud off, and picked up her sun hat and started walking towards the source of the noise. It appeared to come from within the conclaves of the Three Musketeers. The Three Musketeers were three pairs of trees that seemed to reach up to one point in the skies as if with their swords drawn proclaiming their creed, “One for all, and all for One”. She always walked by the Three Musketeers on her way home but had never actually stopped to ever see what was hidden within the green arms of this trio. As her bare feet lead into this hidden world the laughter of the child she had heard earlier got louder and sharper. As she brushed the green leaves and branches of her face and walked in she saw Mac R. McAllister for the first time. His overalls and shirt were rolled up and scantily thrown on the roots of one of the Musketeers. Mac was a skinny, knob-kneed boy, covered with freckles from his head to the extent of his body that she could see him above the water he was wading in. There was a little brown dog swimming along with him chasing him through the little pond.

“Come on Pooch, Come on Pooch”, Mac yelled his hands splashing water as he waded through the water.

The boy’s laughter was now complimented with the small yelps of the little brown furry beast. She looked at this little white freckled boy wadding through this watery confinement as if this was all he needed to satisfy his happiness. Children always brought her a great joy, even though she could never have any of her own. She had wanted to adopt a child, but she and her late husband never actually got right down to the paperwork. She regrets it now. She smiled looking at Mac enjoying the day in the comforts of water. For a moment she caught the glimpse of Mac’s blue eyes, she could almost see his eyes bulge out of its sockets with the shock of finding some one staring at him and Pooch. There gaze lasted mere seconds before he slipped on a little rock and splashed backward with his freckled butt rising like the fin of a whale. His wet brown head resurfaced like the head of a whale looking for the whaling ship. They stared at each other for what seemed like ages.

“Hello”, she chose to break the ice with a smile on her face.
“Hi”, looking up towards this foreign unexpected voice.
“What you up to?” her hands folded behind her back.
“Why?” with raised eyebrow and a squinted forehead.
“Well I am the only one who comes to the river in the afternoon”
“This is Crick! I have been here ever since I was nine” his nose flaring.
“Oh do you now?”
“Yes, and if you don’t go away I will make Pooch bite you” one of his feet stepped on a sharp pebble and he quickly moved to find a better spot to plant his feet.
“Oh he looks adorable” Pooch the little pup was now resting on top of a little tree stump looking at both of them. His fur ruffled from him trying to dry himself out. His beady black eyes staring back at this tall woman standing before it.
“No he is a mean dog. He will tear you to pieces” a little angry at pooch for acting so calm. His life could be in danger.
“I think he likes me”
“What do you want?” not finding it a satisfactory reason for her to stay.
“Nothing”, Megan laughed. This kid was adorable.
“Don’t laugh at me. My dad knows the sheriff, they have dinner all the time”
“The mayor is a good friend of mine”, Children always acted like grown ups with powers of authority and who they knew and how they are invincible. What a wonderful feeling isn’t it? To be invincible.
“So. The sheriff has a gun you know. I saw him use it on a cow. The cow didn’t like it”
“What’s your name?” Funny she though how as you grow older and find out more about the world the more insecure and the more fragile you become. You take fewer risks. You some how don’t start living life completely anymore.
“Mac R. McAllister. Everyone calls me Mac. I am sharpest kid in town you know”
“I am sure you are. You seem like a strong boy coming here all alone”
Dimples appeared on the side of Mac’s face with a smile, “Oh I am”.
He almost stood up to show his strong young body but realized he was stark naked and blushed faster than a chameleon changes color.

“You didn’t see anything!” feeling his cheeks fill with the flow of warm blood.
“No Mac, I didn’t”, hiding her laughter.
“Can I put my clothes on?” his eyes relaxed and both eyebrows raised in a silent plead.
“Go ahead”
“Are you going to close your eyes or what?” not completely trusting her yet.
“Yes I will” closing her eyes tightly.
“Promise you won’t open them?”
“I promise” she covered her eyes with the palms of her hand.

Her eyes shut to the world, she could hear the trail of water that Mac’s body left walking out of the little pool. He heard his running footsteps and the rustling of clothes as he put them on.

“You can see now” he can trust her now. She didn’t look.

She opened her eyes to look at Mac once again. Mac stood before her in a filthy faded overall jean that was two sizes too big for him, that would slightly drag on the ground. From the corners of the bottom of his overall she could see little fingers of his dirty brown bare feet. He was wearing, of what remained of a white t-shirt now covered with mud and dirt. His long wet hair sticking on his forehead like the limbs of an octopus.
Clothes, not necessarily the best fit or style but good enough to fulfill its purpose of covering up the nakedness that we all are born with. Yet as the years pass away and we grow older, the clothes serve a new purpose. To hide the insecurities of one, by wearing clothes like the feathers of a peacock to attract or even distract one from a fragile and many times empty soul of one.

“Do you want to see my Crick collection?”
“Your what?” she wondered what he had to show her.
“Crick collection”, and held up a large jar full of water and filled with what looked like little frogs in it.

He slowly worked his way around the little ecliptic water pool. Trudging his way through the fallen branches wedged into the mud. The shadows of the arms of the musketeers passing like black beams off his young face as he walked closer to her. He stopped about two feet away from her, still a little hesitant about the presence of this stranger. He held out the jar once again in front of her face and she reached for it he drew it back.
“What’s your name?”
“Megan”, she said with a smile.
“Ok!”
“Their names are Bill and George”, and gave the jar to her. She held the jar up in the tiny rays of sunlight and looked at the little green warts in this glass cage. Trapped within the confinements of this little circular jar with only each other for company. One of the frogs was smaller than the other one and had its little webbed feet planted on the edge of the glass as if looking for a deeper meaning for life than its current condition. Looking for a way out, something higher than this plane of existence.

“Do you come here often Mac?”
“No! Only when I want to get away from Mom or school.”
“You don’t have school today, isn’t it Sunday?”
“I don’t like church” his fidgeting eyes looking around.
“Why not?” She gave back the jar to Mac and looked at Mac’s blue eyes waiting for his response.
“I don’t like the people there” he looked inside the jar to make sure the frogs are still in there.
“Why not?” Megan looked at this child once again. A child barely more than ten, at the most maybe eleven, who had just summed up her own idea of god. The fact that god doesn’t need to be glamorized in buildings or structures and is a private relationship between each human and god.
“Well you know Mr. Muller?” he looked at Megan’s eyes for the first time directly.
“The Mayor?” surprised to be stared down by the boy.
“Yes, he wants make the school bigger”, still holding the gaze.
“School is a good thing”, Children do seem to have all the answers to one’s questions in the simplest of ways. Children do live the life that we all are supposed to as humans. Without prejudice or hate.
“I don’t want to go to school. My dad didn’t either. I want to be like my dad”.
“Well is that why you don’t go to church?”
“No” he had already told her he doesn’t like church. Why is she asking again?
“What else than?” looking for a better reason. She brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead.
“Just the people. They all go just because they have to. Last week I caught Mr. Thompson the grocery store owner sleeping in church. God talks to me here more. He listens to my prayers and helps me have fun too”.

Megan though of how children pursue happiness in the simplest of tasks. No concern for what clothes they wear, or where they live or what they do. Just the simple fact that they could wake up everyday with the sun shining on their face would be enough of an aphrodisiac to get them through the day and night. Who can forget the boundless energy they have. The innate urge to go out and try anything.

“I have to go home, I am hungry” he had to go home before her parents got home from church.
“Me too” she lied too, she had to go get packed for tomorrow.
“This place is our little secret right?” extending his right hand.
“Yes it is. Just me and you”, children are so secretive of their prized possessions. She shook his little hand as an acknowledgment of the secrecy of this place.
“And Pooch”
“Yes and Pooch” she smiled.
“Are you going home too?”
“Yes I have to get some rest, I have a long day tomorrow.” She hated Monday mornings when she had to go for her chemotherapy at the hospital.
“What’s tomorrow?”
“I have to go to the hospital to see a doctor”
“Are you sick?”
“In a way I am,” does he even know what cancer is?
“Are you going to die?”
“I don’t know yet” she wondered sometimes the same thing too.
“My uncle John had to go to the hospital a lot too last year. They said he had some thing in his head. I always said he is crazy though. Those doctors couldn’t fix him.” He started picking his nose and wiped it on the right sleeve of his shirt.
“Is he okay?”
“No he died. Took him to church. Uncle John hated church too. I don’t know why they took him to a place he hated. Do you like going to church?” he didn’t understand why everyone was crying. He thought church was a happy place. His mom was crying and still kept saying his uncle was going to a better place. He thought they all were jealous of him.
“Sometimes, I like this place more, like you do. To escape from the world.”
“Well I have to go home now. Come on Pooch” he really hoped his parents aren’t back yet.

Mac looked for Pooch who was now digging a little hole and looked up much to its dismay to his companion. Mac darted for the old dirt road that lead to his home, a fifty-five acre farm, and Pooch followed hot on his heels.

“I will see you Megan. Bye!” he screamed as he picked up his pace.

Megan looked up at the little dust trail this boy left behind. Megan sighed. She hated going to see those doctors. She wondered what else they had in store for her. She gathered herself up and started walking towards the little wooden shack of her home. She looked back once again at the three musketeers reaching up for the sky with their arms out and heads held high, full of hope.