He’d been down in the dark for too long.
Little Tobias Johnson hummed tunelessly to himself, his arms wrapped around his knees in a bid for self-comfort. His eyes were wide open and blind, for the sun had set hours ago, and all that was left for him was the steady drip, drip of hidden water, and the brittle sound of sticks that ticked and tumbled beneath his feet.
With the distance of lingering shock, he felt the broken bones of his ankle grind together. Ticking and tumbling.
Little Tobias Johnson wanted his mother.
The sticks clattered as he shifted, and he bit back a cry as he heard one snap. His eyes burned with tears and the beginnings of fever, and he was suddenly, desperately sorry for the damage he had done.
He reached into the dark, fumbling until his hands closed around the sad, broken thing. The branch was harder than he thought it would be, thinner and quite smooth, and some of the fear faded as he carefully slotted the broken halves back together. It was all a game; just a game. His mother would come soon, and they would laugh together at little Tobias Johnson’s talent for trouble.
Until then, he had always been good at puzzles.
“Five, six, better pickup sticks,” he sang tremulously, reaching for another smooth branch. “Seven, eight, lay them straight…”
+ + +
One day later, when the police finally aimed their flashlights down the crumbling mineshaft, they found him giggling, with the desiccated remains of a dog skeleton, half reassembled, at his feet.
