by Nancy Rue

If Will Hutchinson thought the radio announcer could hear him, he would have begged him to keep the Lone Ranger riding for just a few more minutes. He knew the second Silver’s hoof beats faded out, his mom would say the dreaded words—"Will, time for bed. You, too, Fawn."

Fawn, the 10-year-old American Indian girl who lived with Will and his mother, made a mild "I don’t want to" face and headed for the stairs.

"Race you, Will," she said.

Will fidgeted with the doily on the arm of the chair. "Nah. I think I’ll stay up and listen to one more show."

"Nice try, Will," Mom said. She nodded her head toward the stairs where Fawn was waiting.

"Okay," Will said. He untangled his long legs and stood up to stretch, his mind whirling for another excuse.

"You know what, Mom," he said. "Your Victory Garden is gettin’ really choked up with weeds. You want me to go out and pull some while there’s a moon?"

Mom’s mouth was twitching the way it did when she was about to smile.

"Since when are you so eager to weed my garden? I could barely pay you to do it all summer."

"We gotta help the war effort," Will said. He really did want to help America win the war it was fighting in Europe and the South Pacific—everybody did in 1944—but that wasn’t the reason he wanted to pull weeds.

"You’re such a liar, Will," Fawn said. "You just want to stay up."

"Upstairs, Fawn," Mom said.

Wide Awake

Will looked down at the toes of his moccasin slippers.

"What’s this about, Son?" Mom said. "This is the third night in a row you’ve tried to get out of going to bed. You having bad dreams or something?"

"No!" Will said, louder than he planned. "It’s not that. I’m just not sleepy. Maybe I could ride my bike up and down Canyon Road a couple of times ’til I’m tired."

"And have the Civil Air Patrol warden after you," Mom said. "The lights have to be out, and you have to be in."

"But—"

"Dad would want us to cooperate."

"Dad does want us to cooperate," Will corrected.

He watched Mom carefully until she nodded. Will felt nervous when she talked like Dad wasn’t alive.

"Go try to sleep," Mom said.

She linked her pinkie finger with Will’s. Mom was good that way. She didn’t embarrass him with lots of kissing and hugging. He just wished she would let him stay up. The truth was, he didn’t want to go to bed because it terrified him.

But I can’t tell her that, he thought miserably, trudging up the steps. And I sure can’t tell Fawn! She’d tease me for the rest of my life. He sighed as he pushed open his bedroom door.

"Boo!"

"AH!"

Fawn sprang out from behind the door.

"Scared ya, didn’t I?"

She danced over to his bed.

"No, you didn’t."

"Yes, I did," she giggled. "You want me to go?"

"Yes," Will said, then immediately shook his head. "No, don’t. Let’s stay up for a while."

He snapped out the lamp.

"What are we gonna do in the dark?" Fawn asked.

"Talk."

"About what?"

"Whatever you want."

Even in the blackness, Will could sense Fawn’s eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Whatever I want?" she said. "Why?"

"Because it’s your turn."

Fawn flopped back on the bed, while Will sat on the floor. She babbled about how she was glad there was a meat shortage because that meant no liver. . . . She fell asleep midsentence.

Night Watch

Will flipped over on his back with an anxious breath. Overhead, replicas of Ally planes danced in the moonlight, casting shadows on the adobe-white walls. He squeezed his eyes shut but the thoughts came, so he opened them again.

I don’t want to be awake! he thought. Tears burned his eyelids. I don’t like lying here and thinking stuff!

His stomach knotted up, the way it did when he went to the dentist.

Just close your eyes, he told himself. And count something. Dad used to say "count sheep." Will sat straight up. "I bet he still says it," he said out loud. "I bet he says it to the other guys in the prison camp when they can’t sleep."

Will curled up on the rug and listened to Fawn’s steady breathing. He began to count. But as the numbers rose—one . . . two . . . 20 . . . 65 . . . 102—so did his panic. The sheep began to change into Japanese soldiers, marching down Canyon Road. They must be coming to invade the city of Santa Fe, just the way they did the Pacific islands where Dad was—

Will sat up again. His hands were clammy, and his heart was racing. Leaping up, he flew across the bed and yanked open the window.

I have to see! I have to see if they’re coming! he thought wildly.

He threw himself through the opening. Nothing in sight yet, but he was sure they were just around the bend. He’d practically heard them.

Will leaned out farther, his sweaty hands gripping the side of the window.

Suddenly his hands slipped. Will lunged forward onto the roof. He reached out to stop his slide, but the tiles were slick and he careened straight down.

He didn’t have time to shout for help as his shoulders plunged over the edge of the roof. The ground raced toward him. Suddenly he stopped. Will felt a sharp tug at his waist as he jerked to a halt.

In one terrifying moment, Will realized that the waistband on his pajama bottoms had caught on the downspout, and he was dangling over the front porch.

"Aw, man!" he said out loud.

He tried craning his neck around to call through the window. If he could just wake Fawn.

Too late. A flashlight caught him in its beam, and Mom’s calm voice said, "That’s one way to fight insomnia. Don’t move."

Oh, brother, Will thought as Mom hurried to the garage. I’m in for it now.

Mom returned with a ladder, propped it up against the roof and climbed up. With Dad being gone for more than three years, there wasn’t much Mom hadn’t learned to do.

Nothing to Fear

When he reached the ground, all he wanted to do was take off running down Canyon Road—soldiers or no soldiers. And of course there were none. Just the fear still marching through his veins.

"Sit with me, Son," Mom said, settling herself on the front steps.

Will sat beside her, looking down.

She nudged him with her elbow. "Imagine my surprise when I was sitting here trying to get sleepy and suddenly you appeared."

"I leaned too far out the window," Will said. "See—"

"You couldn’t sleep either, huh?" she said.

Will looked at her in surprise.

"I have to fight scary thoughts myself sometimes," Mom said, mouth twitching. "I start imagining that all my students turn on me and I lose my job and we run out of money—"

"That’s not gonna happen!" Will said.

"Oh," Mom said. "So you imagine more realistic things?"

Will’s head drooped. "I thought Japanese soldiers were marching down the street. Every time I lie there in the dark, stuff like that starts happening, and I think it’s real."

"Kind of like that chair up there on the porch is a German sniper?"

Will turned to look, ready to snort out loud. But now that she mentioned it, it did kind of look like a gunman. . . .

Mom clicked on her flashlight. Will grinned.

"It’s just a chair. And those fears of ours—"

"They’re just dumb fears," Will said. "But that doesn’t help."

"That’s because they aren’t the real fears," Mom said. "They’re just a cover-up."

"I don’t get it," Will said.

"If you’re like me," Mom said, "you’re afraid that the war is never going to end and your dad isn’t coming home."

Will wanted to block out her words. He got up and switched on the porch light.

"We’ve got a stronger light than that," Mom said. "God’s light."

Will grunted. "Where’s the switch?"

"Right here," Mom said, pointing to his chest. "To turn it on, you say, ‘Lord, I believe, but help my unbelief.’ "

"But just because we pray, doesn’t mean everything’s gonna be all right," Will said. "Some kids’ dads died already, and I bet they prayed."

Mom nodded. Her expression was sad, but not fearful.

"It just means we’ll get through whatever happens, because God gives us the strength—and hope and love."

She let that sink in. Mom was good that way.

"You want me to go to bed?" Will said.

Mom’s lips twitched.

"Nah," she said. "Right now, I think there’s a little more light out here."

	Q: Why did the dog lay on its back with its feet sticking in the air? A: It was trying to trip birds. Amy S., 11, Illinois Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe