Static Road

The map is gone.

One second it was in his pocket. The next, a blur of color and breath yanked it free and vanished between rows of broken houses.

The boy stands stunned, fist clenched where it should be. Ruckus growls behind him but doesn’t chase. He stares after the space where the child ran.

Not an adult. A kid. Younger than him. Hoodie zipped to the throat. Skin too clean. No sound when they moved.

The boy runs.

Ruckus barks once. Then stays. Doesn’t follow.

But he runs anyway.

The neighborhood is wrong. Too flat. Too quiet. Houses sag like they’ve been watching too long.

He turns a corner and skids to a stop.

The child stands in the center of the cul-de-sac, barefoot on the asphalt, holding the crayon map. The wrong way. Upside down. Smiling.

Their mouth moves, and the voice comes out like a bad recording.

“Rule One: Don’t let them smile… too… too long.”

The boy steps back.

The child takes one perfect step forward. Then another.

The smile doesn’t move.

A window behind them flickers. Then another. The house lights buzz on in sync. Adults begin to appear at the edges. From garages. From doorways. From the crawlspace under a porch.

Drawn to the surge.

The boy grabs the bat with both hands.

He swings.

A fuse box snaps. Sparks fly. One porch light explodes in a white burst. The map flutters free.

He lunges and grabs it. The paper is warm.

He runs.

Behind him, the child says something else.

Not a rule. Just a whisper.

“You forgot one.”

Pensacola, Florida – 30.4° North, 87.2° West