Uprooted

Chapter 1

"Again, Skip?" 

Estelle faced the red-haired scarecrow waiting outside her door.

Freckles peeked through his sunburn, and his elbows and knees were adorned with the perpetual scabs of an ever-active eleven-year-old boy. To say he was a frequent visitor to her little clinic would be an understatement.

He beamed up at her. "Good morning, Miss Estelle. How are you this fine day?"

She raised a brow at this performance. "I was doing just fine until a little scamp landed himself on my doorstep. What have you done now?"

He cradled his right arm to his chest, a huge basket of apples hanging from the bend of his left elbow. "I think it's broken!" he announced, in the same tone she had once a decade earlier exclaimed, "It's slimy!" the first time she touched a frog—excitement mingling with distaste.

She sighed. "I suppose you had better—"

But he was already brushing past her into the cottage, tossing a "Thanks, Miss Estelle!" over one narrow shoulder.

"—come in," Estelle finished. With a last exhale she shut the door, hastening to the examining room (her mother had called it the kitchen) when she heard an Ooh from that direction.

"What are you doing?"

He turned as she entered the room. "What's this?" He was stretched to more closely examine something on the higher shelf.

When she saw where he pointed, she replied, "A spinning top."

"Ooh, hello Spinning Top. What does it do?"

She explained by demonstrating, taking the toy down from its perch and sending it twirling across the tabletop.

Seeing the size of his eyes as he watched, mesmerized, she smiled. She had probably looked similar the first time she'd seen it at work. There was such a delicate balance between achieving stillness, wobbling, or seemingly endless revolution.

"Wow, is it magic? It's like it'll never stop!"

"It's even better than magic. It's science."

When finally the top slowed, then wavered, then skidded to a stop lying against the table, he raised his eyes to her. "Can I try?"

"Don't you want your arm looked at first?"

He blinked at her as if the suggestion was strange. She would never understand young boys.

"How about you sit and let me look at your arm, and you can play with the top while you tell me what happened."

"Great!" He threw himself down into a nearby chair, wincing when the movement jarred his arm. She shook her head but his grin snapped back into place as he made himself comfortable at her table.

"Just wait here while I get my supplies." She walked past him toward the back of the house, picking up linens to use as bandages and stopping by her room to retrieve the book. On her way back, she paused by the door to the master bedroom, listening. No sound came from within. She had not expected any different, but habit, and perhaps hope, compelled her to check.