Made Gatekeepers

Harry’s dad didn’t remember the woods. That was the worst part. He remembered the

police lights. The handcuffs. His father’s face as they took him away.

But whenever Harry tried to ask about the stone circle, or the nights he disappeared,

his dad’s mind slid right past it—like the memory refused to stick. “You keep asking

me the same questions,” his dad said once, frustrated. “It’s like you want me to be sick.”

Harry stopped asking after that. The marks on Harry’s leg spread higher. Thinner now.

More precise. He could feel the woods when he closed his eyes—every root, every hollow,

every place the ground had ever been disturbed. And the bodies. He hadn’t told anyone