The Riverman (The Riverman Trilogy) by Aaron Starmer

basement, her hand on the warm boiler.
    She hurried upstairs, expecting to find her family awake and worried, but it was still dark and everyone was still asleep. When she reached her bedroom, she checked her clock. She had been in Aquavania for nearly a day, but according to the clock, she hadn’t even been gone three minutes.
    Her family was likely to tell her it was only a dream, but she knew it was more than that. She was no longer that naïve little four-year-old who confessed everything. She was the ripe old age of seven, and Aquavania was now her secret. And she was going back.

    Fiona’s version was more detailed, and she told it confidently, as if she’d been rehearsing it for years, patiently waiting to get it off her chest. It wasn’t without emotion, but it was precise and focused, and I didn’t know what to make of it other than wanting to hear more.
    More would have to wait.
    “Alistair!” my mom hollered.
    I peered around Frog Rock and saw her standing on the back deck. Worry ruled her posture. Her neck was craned. Her arms dangled helplessly.
    “I’ll be a second,” I whispered to Fiona as I got up from the chair.
    Fiona responded with a curt nod, but I could tell she wasn’t thrilled about the interruption. She had only just begun her story.
    “What?” I barked as I stepped into the grass. “I’m busy.”
    “Thank god,” my mom whimpered. “Oh, thank god.”
    She dashed toward me, and we met halfway through the yard, where she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me as if to test my existence.
    “There’s been an accident,” she told me. “Fireworks. Charlie is in the hospital.”

 
    S UNDAY , O CTOBER 22
     
    The details were gory indeed. According to my mom, Kyle woke to a bang sometime around eight thirty on Saturday morning, but, like everyone else in the neighborhood, he had ignored it. It was the beginning of hunting season and men with muzzle-loaders were thick in the forests nearby. At nine o’clock, when Kyle ducked behind the clubhouse for a smoke, he found Charlie unconscious, his hands a mangled mess, and the box of fireworks nearby. Some of the feral cats had gathered and were licking the blood off of Charlie’s body. Kyle shooed them away with a stick, carried his little brother to the van, and ferried him to the hospital. The doctors said Charlie was minutes away from dying of blood loss when he arrived and, for at least a few minutes, Kyle was a hero. When he admitted that the fireworks were his, his reputation resumed its default position. He was irresponsible, dangerous, an unforgivable variety of older brother.
    People had wondered if I was involved. My alibi was solid, backed up by Fiona, though we didn’t reveal the nature of our conversation. “We were making up a story together,” she had told my parents and the police.
    A boy and girl hanging out behind a rock? Making up a story? They certainly didn’t believe that, but they also didn’t believe we had anything to do with Charlie’s accident.
    I wasn’t allowed to visit Charlie until Sunday morning. He had spent hours in surgery and needed time to sleep off the effects.
    My dad drove me to the hospital, and on the way he told me, “When I was a kid, even younger than you, there was a guy down the street who I was friends with. One day we were playing ball. A few days later and he’s diagnosed with polio. He died not long after that.”
    “You think Charlie is gonna die?”
    “No, no, I don’t think that,” my dad assured me. “I’m trying to tell you that life will sneak up on you sometimes. Even though you’re a kid, it doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”
    “I’m aware, Dad.”
    The truth is, I wasn’t aware. Not really. But I would be.
    *   *   *
    There were cartoon puppies and pinwheels on the fading wallpaper of Charlie’s room. The same motif was echoed in the sheets and blankets. This was the children’s ward, and it didn’t matter if you were four or fourteen; everyone