Historically, altars were often mounds of earth, sacred miniatures of the mountain of God. They are the places where human devotion impregnated the soil, giving birth to divine blessings. --Carl Scholz

  The boys ambled their way through the neighborhood, back to their empty lot the next day. Max tossed a brand-new baseball from Phil’s General in a lazy rhythm. “Who’s going to the parade tomorrow?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “My parents want me to go,” Eli said, kicking a rock down the sidewalk. “Let’s ditch and play ball. The parade’s so boring.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Henry chimed in. “Last year I was a candy thrower and whatever I didn’t throw was mine to keep. By the end, I still had a full bag of Choco-Pops all to myself.”

  Jack smirked, “I remember you had a big grin on your face with all those little girls chasing you.”

  “I wasn’t grinning. My dad made me smile the entire time, and when I didn’t, he’d elbow me in the ribs.”

  “He elbowed you ‘cause he was checking out the same kindergartners you were.”

  Henry’s face flushed red. Without warning, he lunged at Jack, shoving him hard. Jack stumbled but recovered quickly, shoving back just as hard.

  The scuffle escalated in seconds, Henry swinging and Jack landing a solid hit before the others yanked them apart. Henry’s lip bled as he wiped it on his sleeve, glaring.

  “I hate you, Jack,” he spat.

  Jack just grimaced.

  “Why do we even let him hang around?” Henry demanded, voice shaking.

  Max sighed, stepping between them. “Knock it off. Both of you. Just stop.” He tossed the baseball to Henry.

  Henry caught it, seething, but he held his tongue. He tossed the ball to Pip, who passed it to Wes.

  “Anyway,” Wes said, clearing his throat. “We’re skipping the parade. While all the old people are there, we’ll be fishing at Fitz’s Spot.”

  “Yeah,” said his twin, Perry. “It’ll finally be ours for once.”

  The boys murmured in agreement, passing the baseball in easy arcs. When it landed in Clark’s hands, he hesitated. For a fleeting second, it seemed like the ball was bleeding, but then he noticed the red smear from Henry’s lip. Shaking off the strange thought, he tossed it back to Max.

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  Their casual walk was interrupted by a voice—a thin, trembling voice that stopped them cold.

  “God, help me remember! I want to remember!”

  A man sat slumped on the curb a few houses down, rocking back and forth with his hands gripping his head. His matted white hair and patchwork clothes marked him instantly. Everyone in town knew him as Amnesia Man. Nobody knew his real name.

  Jack’s expression lit with mischief.

  “Jack, don’t—” Wes warned, too late.

  “What’d you forget?” Jack called, ignoring their protests.

  Amnesia Man looked up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto them. He stood slowly, shuffling toward the group.

  “Know that feeling when you’ve forgotten something?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “That’s what I’ve got. All the time. I forgot something... but I don’t know what.”

  “Your keys. Maybe you left the oven on?” Jack quipped, his smirk returning.

  Max shoved Jack hard. “Shut up.”

  “What? I’m just trying to help!”

  Amnesia Man didn’t seem to notice the exchange. He stared past them, his expression distant.

  “No... not keys. Not that. Something big. Something only the gods could know. But they’ll tell me one of these days. They have to.”

  “We’ll pray for you,” Jack mocked, but his tone wavered when Amnesia Man’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Prayer’s the only way,” the man said softly. “We’ve all forgotten something. Something important. Something awful.”

  The boys shuffled uneasily. Max gave Jack a hard shove toward the road. “Let’s go.”

  As they walked away, Wes rounded on Jack. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Jack shrugged. “He’s crazy. Who cares?”

  “Nobody likes you, Jack,” Clark said sharply. “Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  Jack said nothing. Being on Clark’s bad side wasn’t wise.

  “Yeah, just leave,” Max added.

  “I’m not leaving!” Jack snapped. “It’s just some crazy guy. Why does it matter? Everyone makes fun of him! I’ve heard you guys do it, too.”

  None of them replied, but the mood stayed tense as they walked toward the edge of town.

  Clark felt the shift in the air. It wasn’t as dry as yesterday, even though the sky was cloudless. The closer they got to the lot, the scrubbier and more desolate the surroundings became. Soon, the labyrinth came into view—miles of coiling walls, their varying heights and widths interspersed with crumbling buildings. The labyrinth had risen nearly a century ago, obliterating the neighboring towns and leaving Bend an untouched island surrounded by ghostly ruins.

  Clark’s eyes lingered on the towering walls, the jagged remnants of a world before. What happened to everyone? he wondered.

  The other boys weren’t looking at the labyrinth, though. Their attention was fixed on the pitcher’s mound in the lot. Something was there.

  “What the...?” Wes muttered. “Do you guys see that?”

  The boys looked, but their eyes couldn’t understand what they were seeing from that distance.

  After a long silence, Pip burst forth from the group, sprinting to the mound as fast as he could. Reaching it, he leaned over, gripping his knees, dead out of breath. Even from the distance, Clark could see Pip staring with wonder at whatever was on the mound. Pip reached out, grabbing what was there. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his dirty wife-beater, turned around to face the boys he left standing afar off.

  “Well, what is it?” Henry hollered.

  Pip, still catching his breath, “Baseballs! They’re baseballs!” Pip yelled, holding one up. The boys ran to the lot to find a two-and-a-half-foot pile of dirty, weather-worn baseballs, all on the pitcher’s mound.

  Clark stared at the pile, unease curling in his chest. “Where did they all come from?”

  No one had an answer.