Fawn's Arc

Chapter 10 of 13

Fawn left the shed with the ring heavy in his hoof. He could not carry it loose all day. He found an old carved jewelry box tucked on a shelf inside the shed, its lid polished, its corners bright with brass. He set the ring and the golden shard inside and clicked the lid shut. Then he carried the box out to the big round bales near the barn and pushed it deep between two of them, where no hoof could knock it and no breeze could reach. Safe. He patted the hay flat and stepped back. The trouble started before he was halfway across the yard. The wind shifted. The smell hit him like a wall — hot oil, salt, the soft sting of vinegar. The red and white chip truck had parked itself near the road, awning out, window open. Steam curled from its little chimney. A painted french-fry sign stood propped on the gravel beside it, grinning, one cartoon arm pointing the way in. A trail of dropped fries lay scattered from the sign to the truck window, gold against the dirt. Fawn's hooves moved before his head did. One step. Two. His mouth was already open. He stopped. He made himself stop. He thought of the box wedged in the hay, and the tired face that had handed him the ring, and the promise he had said only once. He turned his back on the truck. He walked the long way around the barn — past the trough, past the scarecrow — so the smell could not find him. He did it again at noon. He did it again at dusk. When the truck rumbled away, Fawn went straight to the bales. He dug. His hoof closed on the carved box. He opened it. The ring sat where he had left it, the shard beside it, both shining. He carried the box to the shed and set it on the crate. He had kept his word for one whole day. It was the smallest, hugest thing he had ever done — and tomorrow the smell would come back, and he would have to do it all again.