The Absence of Sparrows by Kurt Kirchmeier

Author:Kurt Kirchmeier
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2019-05-06T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FIVE

Sunday marked our seventh day in a row without any darkness, which meant that Griever’s Mill was probably one of the luckiest places on earth.

Pete and I laced up our good leather shoes after having spent twenty minutes polishing them to perfection, Pete complaining almost the entire time.

“If we’re going to walk there, then why bother polishing our shoes?” he’d said. “They’re just going to end up getting scuffed on the way.”

“Don’t drag your feet and they’ll be fine,” Dad told him. “And no fidgeting today,” he added. Pete had a habit of rolling up hymn books and using them as hollow drumsticks against his knees and the edge of the pew, and sometimes the back of Kyle Brewer’s head if Kyle happened to be at church that day. (Dad said that Kyle’s parents were on-again, off-again Christians.) Pete also liked to tap his feet and crack his knuckles. I don’t think he could even help it; his basic wiring just didn’t allow for him to keep still. Unless of course he had a radio pressed to his ear.

“I’m not the only one who fidgets,” Pete grumbled. Pete hated being singled out, never mind that there was usually a very good reason for it.

“Just promise me,” said Dad.

“Fine,” said Pete. “I’ll just sit there, then.” As if sitting were a form of punishment.

“Hallelujah,” said Dad. “Everybody ready?”

I did up the last button on my shirt cuff and nodded. I had mixed feelings about church today. It was going to be hard, hearing about Uncle Dean and all the other victims who Pastor Nolan planned to eulogize. I expected there to be a lot of crying. However, I also expected the pastor to say a few things about the glass plague, and what it might mean from his perspective. I figured that if scientists couldn’t make heads nor tails of what was happening, then maybe a pastor could—not that I’d ever been much of a spiritual person myself. My faith seemed to depend entirely on how I was feeling and what was going on at any particular moment. Perhaps that made me an on-again, off-again Christian, too.

For Uncle Dean’s sake, I hoped it all wasn’t just a load of crazy superstition. The idea that consciousness could end so suddenly and permanently didn’t seem fair to me.

“I don’t understand why we can’t just drive,” Pete persisted. “It’ll hardly take any gas at all.”

“It’s a beautiful day outside,” Mom said to him. “It’ll be nice to take a walk as a family. Besides, I’m the one wearing heels. If anyone should be complaining, it should be me.”

Pete didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, and so off we went.

In truth, it was only about a fifteen-minute walk, which was pretty much the same amount of time that it took for Pete and me to get to school (when we didn’t ride our bikes). And Mom was right—as long as you weren’t thinking about where you were going or why you were going there, it really was a beautiful day.

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