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the woods, a boy suggested. Maybe Old Auntie the conjure woman up on Brewster’s Hill got her, Brody said. Or, worst of all, a girl said, Old Auntie’s razorback hog, the one called Bloody Bones, ate her up.
    Nobody agreed about who took Selene, but they all agreed she was never found.
    By the time we arrived at school, Erica was trembling. We waited until the bus was empty and then got up to leave.
    Mrs. Plummer stopped Erica. “Don’t let them scare you,” she told my sister. “It’s just a yarn people been spinning for years, not a speck of truth in it. A girl named Selene disappeared, but she wasn’t ‘took.’ There’s no conjure woman and no Bloody Bones.”
    She rummaged in her purse, pulled out a pack of Life Savers, and handed it to Erica. “Help yourself. You, too.”
    We each took one and thanked her. “They’re not really bad kids,” Miss Plummer said. “Just nobody’s taught them manners. They’ve grown up as wild as bears in the woods. Give them time. They’ll get friendly when they’re used to you.”
    A week passed, and another week followed, but those kids didn’t get used to Erica and me. They didn’t even try. Luckily, Mrs. Plummer saved the seat behind her for us, so no one could say or do anything to us without getting kicked off the bus.
    Even so, they found ways to torment us with stories of Selene Estes. A whisper here, a comment there, a note or a drawing passed to us.
    When we were off the bus, with no Mrs. Plummer to protect us, the boys continued to knock me around on the playground and the girls whispered about Erica. Unlike Mrs. Plummer, our teachers never noticed. Or maybe they just didn’t care.
    Mom and Dad didn’t have any more luck in Woodville than we did—the adults disliked them for the same reasons the kids disliked Erica and me. They were especially offended by our failure to join the only church in town. We weren’t only outsiders, we were godless outsiders.
    As far as jobs went, neither Dad nor Mom found a position in Woodville. Not that there was much to choose from.
    Dad finally got a job at Home Depot, where he wore a big orange apron and helped people find tools, paint, garbage cans, plumbing supplies, and whatever else they were looking for, most often the restrooms.
    Soon after, Mom landed a position as a receptionist at the real estate office on the other side of the parking lot from Home Depot. Nobody there cared where my parents came from or if they went to church. The people who worked at the shopping center were practically all outsiders themselves, from cities such as Charleston. In Woodville, they claimed, you’d never be accepted if you weren’t married to your cousin. Dad laughed at this, but Mom said it was an ignorant way to talk.
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    On weekends Dad and I got into the habit of spending our free time roaming the woods and fields, following trails made long ago by trappers and hunters. He was forever stopping to take a picture of a lichen-covered boulder or a mossy log, a tangle of branches, a gnarled tree, a hawk or a crow in flight, but I didn’t mind. I loved being in the woods with him.
    Neither Mom nor Erica went with us. Mom had too much to do, she said, and Erica had no interest in the great outdoors. While Mom busied herself weaving, Erica sat nearby, re-reading the Little House on the Prairie books or playing with Little Erica. Sometimes she drew picture stories in her sketchpads; sometimes she painted with watercolors. She seemed perfectly content until the day ended. When night came, she grew fearful and clung to Mom. She still spoke of hearing scary whispers in the dark corners of her room.
    On this particular day, a Saturday, Mom was working at the Realtor’s office. Erica didn’t want to stay at home alone, so she agreed to go with Dad and me. Although it was sunny, the wind was brisk, so we pulled on heavy sweaters and