Home is Where You Left It

by Stephen Marlowe

"Steve!"

It was Mary, calling his name and crying.

"It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—"

Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make out Tobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.

"My stomach," Whiting said, gasping for breath. "The pain...."

Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. He couldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. He touched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, crying softly.

"You two ..." Whiting gasped. "You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—what you want?"

"Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!"

"You can get her out of here, Cantwell?"

"I think so," Steve said.