Static Road

The boy kneels beneath a splintered billboard at first light. He tears open a crushed energy bar, chews, then pours kibble into his palm. Ruckus eats in slow crunches. When breakfast ends, the boy unfolds the crayon map.

Something has moved.

The blue river that once ran straight now bends south. Their dashed red trail detours around a charcoal blot, jagged and unlabeled.

Ruckus sniffs the map, then sits back on his haunches, ears turned toward the trees. The boy strokes his head. Neither of them steadies.

He remembered his brother once saying it—casual, offhand, before everything: If the world looks different, trust your eyes, not the crayon.

Above, the billboard still lists April gas prices, the numbers fading to chalk after rain. Across the metal someone has sprayed a single word: TURN. Red flakes drift like slow snow.

He folds the map along the river’s new hook, slides it into his coat, and stands. The skateboard rattles. The bat bumps his spine. Ruckus pads to the edge of fractured pavement, shoulders tense, fur lifting down his back.

A phone booth across the ditch rings once. Sharp, like a snapped wire. Then silence. A crow answers. The quiet that follows feels heavy enough to shatter.

He starts the old count. “Five... four...” The rest catches behind his teeth. No rule explains a map that redraws itself.

The boy exhales, tightens his laces, and nudges the board forward. Ruckus hesitates, noses the boy’s knee, then falls in beside him. Still guarding the space where the brother should be.

Behind them, the billboard’s lone word hangs in the brightening sky as they roll into the gray.