The Source of All Things by Tracy Ross Page A

table, which folded down and converted into its own bed. Mom was buried in my parents’ double-wide Cabela’s sleeping bag, cocooned under so much flannel I couldn’t find her at first. I burrowed in beside her, the scent of my dad’s body still lingering in the air.
    For a long time I didn’t say anything, just stared at Mom’s eyelids, which flitted along the surface of a dream. I rubbed her earlobe with my finger, feeling the superfine hairs. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I leaned over and whispered that something scary had happened while we were sleeping. Someone had snuck into my bunk bed and put their hands on places that had made me feel scared and sick.
    â€œMmm-hmmm,” Mom murmured, “okay honey, you go ahead.” Then a switch went off in her muggy brain.
    â€œWhat did you say?” she said, twisting her ear away from my hand.
    â€œI don’t know,” I whispered.
    â€œTracy, what did you just say? Tell me what you just said.”
    â€œI don’t know. Someone did something to me.”
    Mom sat up, pushing the covers off of us, which let in a shockof cold air. “What do you mean someone did something to you? I don’t understand,” she said. “You’re right here. How could someone have done something when you’re two feet away from me?”
    â€œI don’t know …” I said again. “But I’m afraid.”
    â€œTracy!” repeated my mom. Now she was yelling, which scared me even more. “What’s going on? Where’s your dad? Don!”
    But Dad had already heard rustling in the trailer, so he came inside to investigate.
    â€œTop of the morning, family,” he said. “Who’s ready for some pancakes?”
    But no one was ready for pancakes. Chris sat up and then quickly exited the trailer. I cowered under the covers trying to become invisible. Mom looked at my dad, relying on him for answers.
    â€œDon?” she said. “Tracy says someone came into the trailer last night. I didn’t hear anything. Did you?”
    Dad’s smile dimmed slightly. He looked from me to my mom and back again, and then he sat down on the bed.
    â€œWhat’s your mother talking about, sis?” he asked me. “What happened last night?”
    I’m not exactly sure what happened after our conversation in the camper, at least not the order of events. Dad asked Chris to take me outside, so we rode around the campground on his dirt bike, peeling out and popping the clutch. I was thirsty and hungry, but also sick to my stomach, like I’d been sunburned from the inside out. Chris and I went to the dock, where we skipped rocks and tried to catch minnows in plastic sandwich bags. We dug in thesand for a couple of hours and then went back to the trailer, where I found Mom still in her sleeping bag, reading a book.
    Mom said Dad and I needed to talk. They had discussed it at length, and he assured her that no one had come into the camper and that I’d just had a bad dream. To make me feel better, she said, he and I were going for a walk.
    It was warm in the sun and cold in the shade. The wind smelled like pinecones and the promise of snow. Dad led us out of the campground to Fishhook Creek, where I liked to watch the spawning salmon, back when they ran so thick it looked like you could Jesus-walk across the river on their wiggling backs.
    When we got to the creek, I found a log and inched across it to the center. Dad scootched behind me, lit a Camel, and sat down so that the soles of his boots skimmed the surface, which was metallic and bright. I felt better, because Dad and I were sitting in one of our favorite spots, balanced on a log above our favorite river, with the sun spilling over our skin. Dad puffed on his cigarette, exhaling streams of smoke that hung in the cool fall air. I balanced on the log, hopping from one foot to the other, staring at one spot like I’d learned in