Winterkill

held the day before school resumed, and tomorrow she and the other hopefuls would be greeted with a posted list revealing who had made the team.

It was always strange being at the school when it wasn’t in session, she thought. The sounds they made in the gym echoed louder, and the hallways seemed twice as wide when empty. She had peeked into her locked classroom to see that her teacher had replaced all of the Christmas decorations with self-esteem motivational posters.

Most of the girls had walked home from school, but that wasn’t an option for Sheridan. So she waited, hoping her hair wouldn’t freeze.

Sheridan shook her head when she thought about how the tryouts had gone. She doubted that she’d made the team. Although she had hustled—her dad had told her that even if she couldn’t shoot, every team needed players who hustled and played defense—the fact remained that she was a lousy shooter. In the scrimmage, she had gone 0-for-3, and one of her errant shots had bounced straight up off the top of the backboard. Worse, in one scramble after a loose ball, her glasses had been knocked off and gone skittering across the floor. The coach had whistled a time-out to protect them. The time-out called attention to her, and a couple of the girls giggled when Sheridan obviously had trouble locating her glasses, and the coach, because of her poor vision. When play resumed, and she had her glasses back on, she was called for two fouls in a row. She had hacked one of the girls who had giggled before when the girl went up for a layup, and she’d set a moving pick on another.

The doors wheezed open behind her and the coach, Mr. Tynsdale, who also taught art, came out of the building and locked it up behind him.

“Do you have a ride?” he asked. She tried to judge from the way he looked at her if he was asking out of sympathy or if he wanted to provide transportation to one of his new players. She couldn’t tell.

“My dad is supposed to pick me up.”

Mr. Tynsdale nodded. “He’s the game warden, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then.” Mr. Tynsdale smiled and walked toward the teacher’s parking lot.

“Thanks for offering!” Sheridan called after him, wishing she would have thanked him earlier.

Mr. Tynsdale waved it off. As he started to climb into his car, he gestured toward the main road as if to say, “I think your ride is here.”

Sheridan started toward the street, then saw that the big late-model SUV that had pulled to the curb was not her dad’s. She stopped as the passenger window descended.

“Do you know where the Forest Service office is?” a man asked. He was thin, almost skeletal, with a close- cropped pad of curly gray hair. He had a long thin nose and wore silver-framed glasses. His eyes were blue and rheumy.

The driver was dark, but didn’t look as old as the man who had asked the question. The driver had close-set eyes and a scar that hitched up his upper lip so that it looked like he was snarling.

“You scared her, Dick,” she heard the driver tell the passenger, not intending for her to hear.

A slight smile pulled at Dick’s thin lips, but he didn’t acknowledge his partner’s comment.

“Is this a school for the deaf?” Dick asked.

The driver chuckled at the other man’s remark. Dick, Sheridan noted, didn’t mind trying to intimidate young girls. Sheridan wasn’t to be intimidated.

“No, it isn’t,” she answered a bit testily. “This is Saddlestring Elementary. The U.S. Forest Service office is three blocks down and a block to the right.” She pointed down Main Street.

“You stand there much longer you’re gonna catch a flu,” Dick said dryly. The driver laughed.

“And if you keep talking to me, I’m going to call the police,” Sheridan snapped, a little surprised that she’d said it.

“Woo-hoo!” the driver laughed.

Dick turned to him, then back to Sheridan. The power window began to whir closed.

“Thanks for your help, you little—” The window sealed tight, and the insult wasn’t heard. But through the glass, Sheridan saw the man say the word “bitch.”

The vehicle eased away from the curb and continued down the street. Sheridan watched it go. She noticed that the license plates weren’t local. They read: U.S. GOVERNMENT.

Sheridan stood there for a moment, still shocked that an adult would call her that. It made her feel numb inside.

Before she could retreat to the alcove, her dad’s green pickup appeared. She was relieved and grateful that he was there, and she ran out to greet him.

“Who was that?” her dad asked, nodding toward the SUV that was now two blocks away.

“A couple of men wanted to know where the Forest Service office was,” she said, settling in and pulling the seat belt across her. Maxine’s tail thumped the back of the seat in greeting. “They were jerks.”

She sat in silence as they drove through town. Both Sheridan and her dad glanced down the street where the Forest Service building was and saw the two men getting out of their SUV. Her dad slowed his truck to a crawl as they drove by. The men wore heavy, high-tech winter clothing that looked brand-new. The man named Dick had a large black duffel bag. The driver was sliding a long metal case out of the hatchback of the SUV.

“That’s a gun case,” her dad said.

She looked over to see if he was concerned or not, but couldn’t read his expression.

“Why are we going this way?” she asked, since their home was in the opposite direction.

“I wanted to see these guys,” her dad responded. “And I was wondering if you would want to help me check on