Chapter 2: The Scalding

The air was heavy with the sweet, metallic scent of tomatoes on our hands, but it was overpowered by the harsh, acrid reek of scalded flesh and melting plastic. My knees went weak, my heart pounding so loud I thought it would burst. The cicadas fell silent, and the night seemed to draw back in horror with us.

My mom screamed—a sound that split the evening. She rushed to scoop him up, her hands trembling as she checked for a pulse, desperately trying to cool the water, her voice cracking as she screamed for help. She collapsed onto the grass, clutching him to her chest, rocking back and forth, her wails raw and desperate. I stood frozen, terrified and helpless, unable to do anything but watch.

Her screams echoed through the dusk, bouncing off the fields, the old grain silo, and the barn. I remember her hands shaking violently as she cradled him, rocking as if she could turn back time. I stood rooted to the spot, a half-crushed tomato bleeding in my palm, my breath caught, the world spinning around me.

I turned my head and realized Buddy wasn’t in his crate anymore. He was up on the porch rafters, playing, and he actually winked at me. His face was disturbingly human, his mouth curling in a way that didn’t look right. My stomach dropped. I could only think—he’d tried to copy what Mom did, bathing my brother, but he’d gotten it all wrong. The horror of it hit me in waves, sharp and cold.

The porch light flickered, catching the eerie glint in Buddy’s eyes. His little paws dangled over the rafter, head cocked as if he was waiting for applause. My vision tunneled, my gut twisting, and I thought I might throw up. It was like he knew exactly what he’d done—or worse, he didn’t care. That crooked, too-wide smile still crawls through my nightmares.

Mrs. Holloway from next door heard the screams and came running, her pink fuzzy Dearfoams slapping against the porch, her hair still wound in curlers. She gasped when she saw my brother, hand flying to her mouth, then sprinted back to her house to call the sheriff. But it was already too late. My brother lay limp in Mom’s arms, still and silent, his little chest unmoving.

Mrs. Holloway’s screen door slammed as she rushed out, her housecoat flapping, slippers scuffing over the grass. She knelt beside us, gasping, hand trembling as she tried to steady Mom’s shaking shoulders. Without another word, she ran back inside to use her rotary phone, dialing the sheriff with frantic, shaky fingers. But nothing could change what had happened. My brother was gone. The world felt impossibly quiet.