Agoraphobia

Day 1810 (Eating Dirt)

It was one of those spring days when the wind blows cold and the sun shines hot. When it's winter in the shade, but summer in the sun. The cold wind, flowing through the fields' wildflowers, carried the sweet scents of growth and renewal.

Uncle Peter and I were tending the orchard when we heard a mysterious high-pitched whine. It started to oscillate as it became louder. Uncle Peter recognized it before I did. All at once he looked panicked, as though a ghost had poked his brain.

It was the Main House's siren! Visions of the house engulfed in flames flashed through my mind. My heart stopped dead in my chest. When it started back up again, it was skipping beats, and I was racing after Uncle Peter as he ran toward the Main House.

This was only about six months after my growth spurt, and I was still getting used to my new body, which was as good an excuse as any why I tripped over nothing and fell, sprawled out, onto the dry ground. A dirt cloud enveloped me, stinging my eyes and invading my open mouth. Ordinarily, I'd have spent time spitting and blinking out the dirt. But this was a siren-worthy emergency. I scrambled to my feet and staggered into a run without even brushing myself off.

When the Main House came into view, I was relieved not to see smoke. Uncle Peter and I were on the porch. Dozens of hysterical people were crowded around the open door or looking out the open windows. They were all yelling, but the siren was drowning them out. Uncle Peter and I were bent at the waist, sucking in air.

"Turn that fucking thing off!" wheezed Uncle Peter, fighting for breath. The loud whine soon faded. Unfortunately, Uncle Peter and I still couldn't understand what was being shouted at us from a dozen different people talking over each other.

"QUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIET!!!" shouted Uncle Peter. Everyone stopped talking. "Jerry!" he ordered, pointing stiff-armed at my father. "What's this about!?"

"Garry has crawled out the front door and disappeared," answered Dad.

"But he's only seven months old!"

"That's why we're concerned."

Uncle Peter looked directly at me. "Fan out!"

I frantically searched the chicken coop while Uncle Peter searched the barn and around the hog pen. I was panicked almost to the point of hysteria. Visions of mean roosters and wild animals attacking baby Garry flashed through my mind. My maternal instincts bubbled to the surface, clawing at my heartstrings! I had so much adrenaline shooting through my veins, I was ready to rip apart wolves with my bare hands.

I ran to the other side of the house and found baby Garry chewing on a dirt clod like it was a teething ring. His saliva had mixed with the dirt, creating mud that was smeared all over his face and hands. He was filthy.

Bryce and Bender were on either side of him, sitting on their haunches, tongues lolling, guarding the baby from malevolent roosters and ravenous coyotes. I picked Garry up and cradled him in my arms. He didn't seem to mind when I tossed away his dirt clod. (I think the novelty had worn off by then.) He reached out and grabbed my nose with a dimpled fist. I carried the little rascal inside, and everyone was profoundly relieved he was safe.

It was then I realized Garry was able to leave the house on his own. He was not agoraphobic! Not only that, but Garry was not a relative of Uncle Peter, Frank, or me. How could he be immune? The prevailing theory was: "Babies CONCEIVED after the peak are immune." That, of course, was merely a supposition. But one supported by the available facts.

Justified or not, people had renewed hope that the next generation would be free of agoraphobia.

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