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When the man was just a little boy, his family\u2019s beloved dog was already very much in the twilight of her life. The golden fur on Ginger\u2019s face and snout had long gone gray, and the arthritis in her hips was bad enough that she could no longer jump onto the living room couch she wasn\u2019t supposed to be on anyway.<\/span><\/p>\n Then one day, the boy came home from school to find Ginger was gone. His parents didn\u2019t have much to say on the topic, and he has never forgotten how he felt that night and for many nights to follow. The hurt, the anger, the despair…and most of all, a sense of betrayal at the hands of the people he loved most in the world.<\/span><\/p>\n In time, the boy grew up to be a man and get married and start his own family, and he vowed he would never lie to a child, not even a lie of omission. That is why, on a sweltering hot August morning some twenty-five years after Ginger vanished from his life, the man decides that his son should help with the burial of their beloved Little Annie in her favorite place in the woods.<\/span><\/p>\n As the man explained to his wife, eight years old is old enough to be told the truth about life and death. It\u2019s important their son know that we all have an obligation to the things we love, even after they\u2019re dead. Maybe especially once they are dead. His wife doesn\u2019t necessarily agree with his thinking, and they argue, but in the end she concedes.<\/span><\/p>\n Now the man and the boy are approaching the forest behind their house. The man isn\u2019t in the best shape of his life, and he\u2019ll pay for that today. He has a shovel strapped to his back. He\u2019s carrying a large plastic storage tub and the muscles in his arms are already twitching. The dead put on weight, he once read, and he believes it.<\/span><\/p>\n The man and the boy do not speak as they walk.<\/span><\/p>\n The boy is still processing how quickly your best friend in the world can go from running wild and carefree in the backyard, to panting her final labored breath on the kitchen floor in a pool of her own blood and pee, to being wrapped up in a black garbage bag inside a container once used to store Christmas decorations. Echoing in the back of his mind is the memory of his parents arguing about what to do, while all <\/span>he<\/span><\/i> could do was stare at Annie\u2019s dull eyes. He had actually seen the light in them go out. The eyes of the dead.<\/span><\/p>\n Like his son, the man is thinking about the contents of the plastic tub. His wife had picked the name Ann, and when he asked her why, she said she had loved it ever since reading <\/span>Where the Red Fern Grows<\/span><\/i> as a kid. From time to time over the years, while the man watched Ann digging in his wife\u2019s flower garden or lying in the grass soaking up the sun, he couldn\u2019t help but think of what had happened to her namesake in that book. Maybe that was why he had started calling her Little Annie instead. A small difference, but maybe enough to shake the feeling she was doomed to die young. Or maybe not.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cDaddy,\u201d the boy says. The man doesn\u2019t think his son has called him Daddy in three or four years. \u201cWhy\u2019d she have to die?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Knowing this is just about everyone\u2019s first question when they learn that death stalks the living and always catches its prey in the end, the man has been carefully planning an answer.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWell, son, everything dies. Animals, plants, everything. These trees giving us so much shade today won\u2019t be around in fifty years. Cats can live for maybe fifteen or eighteen years, assuming they\u2019re indoor cats. Barn cats and feral cats live rougher, meaner lives and most don\u2019t see the age of ten. Mr. Howerson down the road has all those dairy cows and they could live to be twenty years old,\u201d the man says, not adding that Mr. Howerson\u2019s dairy cows won\u2019t ever see the age of seven because their milk production will have diminished so much by then that it\u2019s more cost-effective to have them slaughtered.<\/span><\/p>\n Instead of saying more, the man closes his mouth. He had thought hard about a proper answer, to try to be honest in ways his own parents never had been, and yet he ended up saying almost none of what he had planned — and he doesn\u2019t even like what he actually said or where his train of thought had been headed.<\/span><\/p>\n Screwed that up,<\/span><\/i> the man thinks. <\/span>Dammit.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n The man and his son walk in silence again, the day\u2019s heat rising all around them. Bright beams of sunlight cut through the openings in the forest canopy above. The weight of the plastic tub increases the spasms in the man\u2019s muscles, but he pushes on. He can hear his son following behind him. He wants to look back, to try to read the boy\u2019s face for any clues of what he\u2019s thinking and feeling, but instead he focuses on making each step land firm. The last thing he wants to do is stumble and drop the tub, potentially causing the lid to pop off, spilling out the black garbage bag inside.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cDaddy,\u201d the boy says, \u201cdoes everyone die?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cYes, son,\u201d the man replies gently, remembering how Ginger\u2019s disappearance and presumed death made him realize for the first time that his parents would someday die, too. \u201cI hate to have to tell you that, but it\u2019s the truth. Some people die on the very day they\u2019re born and some live to be more than a hundred years old. I think the oldest person ever might have been a hundred and twenty.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n The man has more thoughts to share, but he finds it difficult to speak as the path begins to slope upward. The growing heat of the day wraps itself around him and squeezes. The man stops and puts down the plastic tub so he can wipe the sweat off his forehead with his equally sweaty hands. He wants to take a break, but he knows it\u2019s too soon. They must keep moving. He picks up the tub and begins to walk again.<\/span><\/p>\n Fifteen minutes later, as the path gets even steeper, his son asks the question that might be as old as humanity itself: \u201cBut where do we go when we die?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cNo one knows,\u201d the man says, forcing out the words. \u201cSome folks believe different things, but no one really, truly knows…\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n The man nearly trips over his own boots but steadies himself just in the nick of time. Between the sticky hotness and the burning in his lungs and the way his arm muscles are screaming in agony, he cannot continue like this. He carefully lowers the tub to the ground. His back twinges, telling him that he\u2019ll be paying for today long after they\u2019re home.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll need your help for this next part,\u201d the man says, turning to face his son. \u201cI\u2019ll do the hard work, but you\u2019ll still need to help. Do you understand?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n His son nods, but neither of them makes a move to follow through. The man needs a break and the boy isn\u2019t too keen on touching the plastic tub. Instead, they listen to the woods and they look around, as if they\u2019ve never been here before. There are birds calling. A twig snaps. Leaves rustle above. Something darts through the underbrush. Time passes. The man had hoped maybe his heart would slow a bit with a short rest, but it thuds in his chest like a galloping racehorse. The sensation is unsettling.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019d better keep moving,\u201d the man finally says, positioning himself so the tub is behind him. He crouches down, reaches back and curls his fingers under the container, and then he stands up. A moment later, he feels the back end rise off the ground. His son exhales forcefully at the unexpected heaviness. The man considers telling his son that the dead put on weight, and then he thinks better of it.<\/span><\/p>\n They slowly navigate the trail as it winds up the hillside. The man can hear his son\u2019s labored breathing and the occasional grunt when a footstep lands wrong. They continue upward, sweat soaking through their clothes and running down their faces. The man blinks away the burning in his eyes, and although he wants to stop again, he does not. Perhaps, he thinks, the pain is a reminder that he should be grateful to be alive.<\/span><\/p>\n Finally, just when the man fears that his arms and legs might truly fail him, the path levels out and soon they reach their destination: a beautiful clearing overlooking the valley below. The man drops to his knees and his son groans with relief after they set the plastic tub down. The man wipes his sleeve across his eyes, which does nothing to stop the burning, and he checks on his son. The boy is lying in the grass, holding his shaking arms across his face to block the sun.<\/span><\/p>\n The man follows his son\u2019s lead, not even bothering to remove the shovel from his back. He simply rolls over onto his side, closes his eyes, and sucks in big, deep breaths, trying to cool his struggling lungs and calm his frantic heart, which seems to have gone out of control.<\/span><\/p>\n Within a few moments, the man has dozed off, even though he would have thought that to be impossible in his current state.<\/span><\/p>\n In the dream that rises, he\u2019s back in the kitchen, watching as Annie begins to die all over again on the linoleum floor. His son and his wife aren\u2019t there yet, and he must quickly think up a story to explain what happened because he will never, ever tell them how solid his boot felt connecting with Annie\u2019s face. She had peed under the table and he was so mad he lost control, just for a second, but that was all it took. Now she\u2019s on the floor, shaking like she\u2019s having a seizure and blood is pouring from her mouth. His wife and son arrive in time for her last gasping breath. Then she is gone.<\/span><\/p>\n The man startles awake. The sun beats down on him and his head feels like it\u2019s in an oven. How much time has passed? He looks around. His son is sitting and watching him in silence. The man wonders if he was talking in his sleep, something his wife has told him happens when he has been stressed. What might he have said? What might his boy have heard?<\/span><\/p>\n The man sits up and stares out at the valley, taking in the view and worrying about the questions he doesn\u2019t want to ask. The river below splits the lowland and the blazing summer sun shimmers across the muddy water like a mirage. That sun is baking the man and his son, but still, they do not move. There is more to do, but the weight of the morning is heavy upon them.<\/span><\/p>\n Eventually, though, the man forces himself to stand, and he removes the shovel from his back. He forgot his work gloves, but it\u2019s too late to worry about that. He digs for half an hour, telling himself that he\u2019s dug longer and in hotter weather to plant some of the fruit trees around their home. He doesn\u2019t look at the plastic container he\u2019ll be planting here like a Dollar Store coffin.<\/span><\/p>\n By the time the hole is big enough, the man\u2019s muscles feel like they\u2019re full of coiled snakes trying to leap out of his body. Blisters have broken open on his hands. His chest is throbbing, and pain is pouring into his left arm.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cDaddy,\u201d the boy says. The man is certain his son will now confess to knowing the truth about how Annie died. But instead, he points at the tub and asks: \u201cWhy are we burying her in this?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cBecause,\u201d the man says, out of breath and burning up, thinking maybe he is the one who died and now he\u2019s in the fires of Hell, \u201cwe don\u2019t want the critters digging Ginger up and eating her. Because we loved her.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n The man doesn\u2019t even realize he\u2019s said the wrong name, and he wants to say more, but he has no words. His vision is blurring and his heart is racing erratically. He needs to get back to the shade for whatever relief it might offer. Much like his work gloves, he also forgot to bring any water, but he\u2019s not even thinking about that.<\/span><\/p>\n The man drops to his knees and shoves the tub into the opening he has carved out of the land. He pushes at the clumps of dirt with his blistered hands, and they thud down on the plastic lid. His son joins him, helping move the soil until the hole has been filled, and then spreading away the excess dirt.<\/span><\/p>\n The man knows there\u2019s another step involved in the burial process, but he can\u2019t think. His chest is booming and he\u2019s not sure how he\u2019ll manage to get back to their house. The distance is only a few miles, but it might as well be on the moon.<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cSon,\u201d he croaks, finally remembering, \u201cwe need to say something nice about her.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n His son is silent for a long moment. The man leans heavily on the boy, his mind going blank as his heart pounds fitfully and the pain in his arm grows. He barely even feels the burning sweat in his eyes now.<\/span><\/p>\n After what feels like hours, his son says:<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cAnnie, you were the best little sister a guy could ever hope to have.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Brian James Freeman is the author of <\/strong><\/em>Walking with Ghosts<\/strong>, <\/strong><\/em>The Painted Darkness<\/strong>, <\/strong><\/em>Blue November Storms<\/strong>, <\/strong><\/em>The Echo of Memory<\/strong>, <\/strong><\/em>The Halloween Children<\/strong> (with Norman Prentiss), <\/strong><\/em>Darkness Whispers<\/strong> (with Richard Chizmar), and four mini-collections of his short fiction. He has written two children\u2019s books: <\/strong><\/em>The Zombie Who Cried Human<\/strong>, illustrated by Glenn Chadbourne, and <\/strong><\/em>The Girl Who Builds Monsters<\/strong>, illustrated by Vincent Chong. He\u2019s also the editor of <\/strong><\/em>Midnight Under the Big Top<\/strong>, <\/strong><\/em>Dark Screams<\/strong> (with Richard Chizmar), <\/strong><\/em>Detours<\/strong>, <\/strong><\/em>Reading Stephen King<\/strong>, and the <\/strong><\/em>Halloween Carnival<\/strong> anthology series. Thanks to the support of his readers on Patreon,<\/a> he now writes and publishes full-time. Find him online at http:\/\/www.brianjamesfreeman.com<\/a><\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n![\"illustration](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.cemeterydance.com\/extras\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/10\/FREEMAN-Annie-2.jpg?resize=683%2C1024&ssl=1\")
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