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But I don’t want him to hurt the ranger.
The ranger is my Papa Rich. He’s mine. He’s all I have.
I hold my breath, not sure what I want to see. Whose side am I on? The rule breaker or my Papa Rich?
“You’re trespassing,” I hear Papa Rich say. The glass of the window is thin. The air is still.
The rule breaker turns, startled. “Oh sorry, man. I’ll be out of your hair in just a second. I’m shooting an article forRolling Stonecalled ‘Find Your Wild.’ I want to make sure I capture it all.”
“Did you not see the signs?”
“I’ll be quick. I saw the schoolhouse up here on the hill and needed to get a better picture up close.” He continues taking pictures as if the ranger has no power over what he does or doesn’t do.
Papa Rich’s jaw tightens. His eyes narrow. I recognize this look. I know exactly what comes next. Papa Rich looks at the old schoolhouse. At me. I’m hidden away in the structure of this trespasser’s dangerous obsession.
Can he see me? No. I know the way the sun is angled that the reflection protects me from the eyes of others. I know the times of the day I’m safe from view. Years and years have made me an expert. Papa Rich can’t see me but no doubt knows I’m watching. He knows I can see. I can hear. I will learn from this man’s mistakes. Another lesson of what happens to those who break the rules.
“The story of the ghost girl in the school window is fascinating,” the rule breaker says as he snaps away. “I want to make sure I really get the right images to go with it.” He doesn’t stop taking pictures. “Have you ever seen the ghost while working here? I’d really like to interview you if you have.”
“There’s no trespassing up here,” Papa Rich repeats.
The rule breaker doesn’t look away from the schoolhouse. He should. He really should.
Like so many times before, Papa Rich pulls a thick wooden mallet from his knapsack he carries every day and hits the rule breaker on the back of the head. The sickening crack echoes up the path and stabs at my heart.
Yes, the rule breaker is bigger. Yes, he could run faster. But just like the others, he falls to the ground. The lens of his fancy camera shatters on the desert dirt and scatters beneath the branches of the sagebrush.
I turn away from the window then and finally pet Pine Cone under her chin. I don’t need to see what comes next. I know Papa Rich will drag his limp body to the acid pits in the old mill building.
Another tragic accident.
Another careless tourist who didn’t pay attention to the danger signs and falls to his death in the pits. It’s not like anyone will find the rule breaker. The acid pits will sizzle his flesh and bone until nothing is left.
The fly in the honey will be rectified. Contamination will be cleansed.
* * *
