Ashes of Foreverland by Tony Bertauski

sank its knuckles so far under Danny’s ribs that it robbed his breath. He gulped small bites of air, tears brimming behind the dark lenses.
    â€œThe bathroom calls.” Santiago excused himself.
    Danny raised a hand but didn’t wait for the Spaniard to return before going to the patio’s wall. He ran the last couple of steps, vomiting over the edge. He rinsed his mouth, wiped his eyes and tried to appear normal.
    Those words, the very same words, had been uttered before.
    He’d heard those words on the island, long ago, to describe Foreverland—the imaginary land where he and all the boys were forced to go, where their dreams had come true, where they got everything they wanted so they would never return. They would leave their bodies behind, empty of awareness.
    Foreverland was the trap they couldn’t resist, so wonderfully everything a boy could want. The old men told them so. They said exactly what Santiago just said in Spanish.
    Why would you ever leave?
    â€œLunch tomorrow, Danny?” Santiago waved from the house. “I come pick you up.”
    Danny agreed.
    It was the second lie he told that day. He wouldn’t be there when the Spaniard arrived. He wouldn’t go to lunch. Reed sent those letters.
    Now he had to find him.

8.  Alessandra
    Upstate New York
    â€œ ¡Hola! ¡Hola! ”
    The front door opened, followed by rustling bags and heavy footsteps. Alex wiped her hands on an apron and turned just in time to see a petite woman come at her with arms wide open.
    â€œOoo,” the woman dressed in brown moaned, clenching her daughter in a long hug that betrayed her inner strength. “ ¿Cómo estás? ”
    They hugged beneath a rack of stainless steel pots and pans, an embrace Alex tried to relinquish twice.
    â€œ Bien, Madre. Bien, bien, bien. ”
    Madre pulled back and stared at her daughter, searching for the truth. Alex took the old woman’s hands and kissed them like she did when she was a child. Madre’s eyes teared up. She held Alex’s hands to her cheeks and kissed them over and over while muttering prayers.
    An unsteady march came down the hall.
    â€œAh, there she is.” Her stepfather, a retired farmer, limped into the kitchen, the uneven gait the result of a tractor rolling on top of him. He wore boots made for cutting wood because you never know when a pile might need tending. The only thing bigger than his boots was his belly and, of course, his personality.
    â€œCan I get an autograph?” Hank asked.
    Alex hugged him. His beefy hands were cut from bucking bales and manhandling ornery hogs. He lifted her onto her toes.
    â€œ Bonita. ”
    â€œ Gracias. ” She laughed. “You’re early.”
    â€œNo traffic,” he said. “Your mother fell asleep.”
    â€œSo you drove 100?”
    â€œNot quite.”
    Alex took the paper bag and placed the bottle of wine on the island counter. Hank went to find a comfortable chair and a television because, as he always said, driving makes you tired.
    â€œYou are cooking?” Madre asked.
    â€œI follow the directions on the box.”
    â€œBut that’s still good, you know. The apron and everything is good.” Madre patted her hand like before, this time without the prayer.
    Alex began cleaning dishes. She could only take so much of that look, the one Madre lovingly saddled onto her children. Look what you do to me, Madre would say when something bad happened. Her brothers, perhaps, deserved as much, but none of the guilt stuck to them. And Alex, the fallout of her older siblings fell on her like ashes of a well-tended fire that had once burned fiercely.
    It took three years of therapy for Alex to unwind the weight of Madre’s suffering. That was why Samuel didn’t call her from the hospital, why Alex didn’t contact Madre until she was home, when everything was normal. The old woman no longer said those words, not to Alex. But