"Hiding again, huh?" he half whispered, as though to reassure himself. "Well, I'll get you this time! I'll fix you good!"
He started forward, his hands outstretched.
Fran watched him, a bewilderment growing in her. The shed was not too dark. It seemed incredible that Sammy could not see her crouching in the shadows at the end of the wood stack. But he groped at air with his hands, his movements always hesitant and uncertain.
It was inevitable that he should sooner or later stumble across Fran. She was ready. The piece of wood felt solid in her hand. She struck at Sammy's head, and he stiffened startledly at the very first movement, as though it had flashed out of nothingness itself, then lurched with a yelp against the wood stack. A small avalanche rained down on him, and Fran darted past and ran toward the house.
Davey was on the back porch with a dipper of water raised to his mouth. He stared at her with wide and somehow shocked eyes and remained frozen until she had entered the kitchen.
She realized that she had, despite everything, managed to keep a grip on the load of wood. She emptied it into the box at the side of the stove, and in doing so noticed a strangeness about the color of her arms. She peered at them, feeling as shocked and staring as Davey had looked, and her mind went back to the ravine and she remembered Sammy not seeing her even while he looked directly into her hiding place. And he hadn't seen her in the shed. Why?
During supper Sammy was unusually quiet. He looked at Fran out of the corners of his eyes, and in his wizened lace was a groping wonder—a vague fear.
Davey seemed to have forgotten his own experience. He forgot things quickly.