The Boy in the Treehouse
The sky hadn't decided what color it wanted to be yet, caught somewhere between ink and pearl, when Caren's alarm buzzed against the wooden nightstand. She slapped it silent with the ease of long practice and lay there a moment, listening to the house settle into its early creaks and groans, the way old houses do when they're the first ones awake.
Six years of this—rising before the sun to help her father with the orchard—and she still couldn't decide if she loved it or merely tolerated it with great affection. Maybe both. Maybe that was the same thing, in the end.
She dressed quickly: flannel shirt, jeans with a permanent grass stain on the left knee, boots that had long since given up any pretense of looking new. Downstairs, her father was already at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of coffee that steamed like it held secrets.
"Morning, sunshine," he said, not looking up from the paper.
"It's not morning. It's practically still night."
"Same thing on a farm." He finally glanced at her, eyes crinkling. "Eggs first. Then help me with the fence line out by the south field. Storm knocked a post loose Tuesday."
"Got it." She grabbed the wire basket from its hook by the door and…
