The Lost Story

by Meg Shaffer

“I hit it! Horribly, but still!” She lifted her hand for a high five. “No high-fiving,” Jeremy said. “When you make a good shot, you say, ‘West-by God!-Virginia!’ ” “West, by God, Virginia?” “No, it’s West! By Gawd! Virginia!” He put ludicrous emphasis on the God in a mock West Virginian accent that was not flattering to West Virginians or any other people on planet Earth. She tried it again. “West—by God!—Virginia! Better?” “Much. Now shoot the target again and try to make it stick this time.” She released her arrow two feet to the left of the target. “I quit.” “Don’t quit,” he chided. “You want to boop death, remember?” “Gotta be an easier way to boop death than this. Jeremy?” He seemed to be elsewhere. He was looking up at the sky. Here in the country, miles from any town, the stars were out in full force. The stars and the old beat-up moon. The air was crisp and smelled lightly of distant smoke from a fireplace. He breathed in and smiled. “On cold nights like this, we’d sit by the fire and read to each other until it was time for bed. Just the three of us. We were halfway through The Wonderful Wizard of Oz when we left. Your sister’s probably still waiting for us to come back and finish reading the story.”