Red Earth White Earth. Will Weaver

      Guy pulled at the old man’s fingers, which he had locked behind Tom’s back. He was hanging on like death.

      “Help me!” Tom screamed.

      The next morning in the hotel room, Guy woke up alone. Tom’s bed was made, his duffel bag gone. Everything was gone. It was as if he had never been in the room.

      The players’ bus waited a full hour, until ten-thirty, but Tom LittleWolf didn’t show. When the coach asked, Guy told him about the visit to Franklin Avenue.

      “So there you go.” The bus driver shrugged. The coach looked at his watch. At eleven the bus left without Tom.

      On the way back to Flatwater, Guy had a bus seat all to himself. But he did not sleep. While the other players dozed he only scraped frost and watched out the window. There was nothing much to see, only groves of red oaks here and there in the white fields.