A bumpy drive through dark and scary woods led to his lonely house. Never expected, we had to wait for him to kill a chicken and Gran to make the noodles before they gave us anything to eat. We stayed for several nights. My room was up steep stairs and there were books, not like my auntie’s house. I loved reading. Some mornings there were acorns on the floor, and scrunchy leaves, not there the night before. He cut a hickory stick to make a bow, tied it taut, helped me choose good arrows. We made a target which I always missed. I looked for eggs, watched him kill a chicken. It circled madly, neck a spurting fountain. I poked the beak to make it grab my stick, ate dinner just the same. One day, when I went up to read, he found me, took me on his lap. No one else did this so it felt nice, and special. After that I listened for his steps until the day he held me much too tight did something he had never done before. He gave me money, told me not to tell. When we got home, I sneaked through our back yard across the tracks to the miners company store bought little gifts which I gave out, proudly. Oh honey, thanks, but how did you get money? Aunt and uncle shouted at each other. She cried, he cursed, I heard them in the night. Other aunts and cousins were involved and I was not supposed to overhear. They looked at me as if I wasn’t there and no one tried to ease the memory of something sweet that suddenly went wrong.