"Dad's Boots"
By Ray Dillon

***

I still heard his boots when I woke up. No smell of pancakes. No morning news. Just squeaking and creaking, old leather boots.

***

I wished I could just go back to sleep, to keep dreaming, but I knew that wouldn't happen now. I sat up in the bottom bunk and scratched my feet on the thick burgundy carpet. The comforting leather creak was pushed out of my head as a truck boomed down the street. I tried to recall my dream, but couldn't.

Bobby's bunk was at my eye level. Only his hair was poking out of the covers. I shivered hard, grabbed a t-shirt and orange, hooded sweater off the floor, and hurriedly pulled them over my head. I threw on thermals, sweat pants, and two pairs of socks, but couldn't find my sneakers. I searched my closet, under the beds, even some of the dumb places they might end up: the tub or the kitchen cupboards, for instance. They were nowhere. I marched down the hall to my mother's room, but she was still sleeping, at least as far as I could tell; she had barely left their bedroom in nearly a month and hadn't said a word unless it was in her sleep, which was usually just saying Dad's name. I watched the bundle of blankets for the rise of breath, and released my own when it finally came. I let her sleep.

I headed down the length of our rickety trailer, through the kitchen to the front door to find my other, cruddy shoes, but they weren't there, either.

That was the last straw. I had a weird feeling about my shoes being gone. I felt like I knew exactly where they were, even if it didn't make any sense, and I was going to get them.

***