Lester of Two Evils

Giles Hollow

The town of Giles Hollow sat alone in a cloud. The high hill upon which it was built sloped dramatically down from all sides, creating an endless view that, on a clear day, seemed to stretch across all of New England. At this moment, however, the rest of the world had been swallowed into a white, nebulous void, sparing only the small village.

The first rays of the rising sun illuminated the dense fog, pulling it upward in ghostlike wisps that drifted hauntingly through the maple trees and tidy buildings. Nearby, golden fields extended outward in all directions, chopped into a patchwork of squares by impossibly straight stonewalls. These rustic boundaries acted as both property markers and fencing for the various types of livestock that chewed their way across the landscape.

Along a single lane of blacktop that split the village in two sat a line of houses. They were far enough apart to allow room for a series of meticulously trimmed lawns, but not so far that one's comings and goings could go unnoticed. As with all small towns, privacy in Giles Hollow was in short supply, anonymity impossible.

Number 507, like every one of its neighbors, was a white two-story, with black shutters, a gray slate roof, and a bright red chimney. But unlike the others, quiet and dark at this early hour, a light glowed brightly from a downstairs window.

The garage door groaned, clanked, and generally complained as it hoisted itself open, slowly revealing a pair of sneakers astride the tires of a bicycle. Before it could rise any further, there was a metallic screeching, and the door came to a lurching stop. A frustrated foot lowered a kickstand, and the sneakers disappeared towards the back of the garage. There was a pounding sound, and the door came to life once more. As it finished its labored climb, a boy, the bright orange strap of a newspaper bag across his chest, stood in the opening.

Lester North had straight black hair and brown eyes. He was thin, not spindly, but as though his body had been stretched while he slept and was waiting for the rest of him to catch up. At eleven years old, he was tall for his age, though few noticed. Being a bright toddler, his parents had started him in school early, and then he'd skipped a grade. This made him easily a full year younger than his classmates, and with some of the older students, nearly two. Because of this, his height and above-average intelligence went mostly unnoticed, which suited Lester just fine.

Shifting the bag over his shoulder, he once again mounted his bike and rolled it into the driveway. There was a low growling sound, and looking down, Lester smiled at the large brown dog baring its sharp teeth.

"Really, Mac? We're going to do this every morning?" He reached out and ruffled the shaggy fur on the dog's head.

Mac replied by increasing the volume of his protest and letting a string of drool drip from the edge of his jaws.

"Aw, who's a scary dog?" chided Lester as he pedaled out of the driveway. "See you tomorrow, Mac."

The dog did not give chase, but his eyes followed the paperboy until he was gone from sight.

Lester coasted along the flat Main Street without much effort, tossing papers into driveways with uncanny accuracy. Each found its mark, front steps, porches, and walkways, with a satisfying thud.

By the time he'd reached the southern edge of the village, Lester's bag was much lighter, and he stopped to move it to his other shoulder. Here, Main Street became rural route sixty-three. To the right, the houses thinned, separated by wide fields and hay barns, too far apart to be worthwhile for a delivery boy and his bicycle. On the left stood a thick forest. Its tall evergreen trees blocked the rising sun, allowing the dense fog that was rapidly disappearing elsewhere to linger.