A Town Called Dust: The Territory 1 Read Online Free Page A

different from most keys he’d ever seen before. It had an oval end, about the size of a person’s thumb, green and worn, and then a metal shaft ending in an intricately cut pattern of squares.
    The key had belonged to his mother. Squid had been given it several years ago. He’d begun asking more and more questions about his parents and Uncle had reluctantly agreed to go into the attic and pull down the old basket he’d been delivered in. Squid had seen the key between the folds of the dusty blanket and asked to keep it. Uncle hadn’t cared. As far as he was concerned it was just a piece of junk. But to Squid this key unlocked some tiny proof that his parents had once existed.
    Squid put the key around his neck and pulled on his clothes. He took a moment to inspect himself, then spat on the palm of his hand and rubbed at a mysterious stain on the front of his shirt, making it worse. Hopefully Aunt wouldn’t notice. He kicked the door of the outhouse, not out of anger, just because sometimes it tended to stick, and when he’d got it open he walked toward the farmhouse. He was surprised to see Uncle already by the storage shed loading barrels of dirt onto the wagon. Squid could smell the familiar waft of freshly fertilized soil. In some ways it disgusted him but in other ways it was like a stinky old friend.
    “I thought I told you to get up early,” Uncle said, lifting a barrel onto the wagon.
    “It is early,” Squid replied accurately.
    Uncle looked at him, scratched his nose and turned away. Not even a snap. Not so much as a “shut your mouth” or a “keep talkin’ back and you’ll get a hidin’.” Uncle wrapped his arms around another barrel and groaned with exaggerated effort as he lifted it onto the wagon, dropping it with a thud. The wagon bounced on its twin axles.
    “Go inside and get some breakfast,” Uncle said, “then get back out here and help me load these barrels.”
    Squid looked at Uncle. His face was straining. His cramped features seemed to twist around the word that squeezed its way out through his mouth.
    “Please.”
    Squid felt like a horse had kicked him, a horse wearing giant feather slippers. The only time Uncle ever said please was at the market. If a farmer approached them asking for some barrels of dirt Uncle would turn to Squid and say: “Fetch the good man his dirt.” Then Uncle would smile, and with a little glint in his eye he would add, “Only the finest for him please.”
    Squid knew those pleases weren’t for him, but this please, this one just now, could only have been meant for him. Squid turned quickly, just to be certain there was no one else around. Uncle’s face was taut, as if the word had tasted bitter on his tongue. 
    “Hurry up then.”
    Perplexed, Squid walked into the farmhouse. The faint clicking of dancing knitting needles was coming from the corner. Aunt looked up at him. Her hair was a tangle of black streaked with more than a little distinguished gray. Her features were fine, she may even have been attractive once, but now her skin looked as though she had spent too long in the bath.
    Not for the first time, Squid wondered why she always knitted. The days rarely got cold enough for Uncle to wear the patterned woolen jumpers she made.
    “Your breakfast is on the counter,” she said.
    Aunt never had breakfast ready for him but, nonetheless, there on the thick wooden counter was a chipped dinner plate. He pushed it experimentally with his finger; it seemed real. There were two boiled potatoes on the side of the plate and lying teasingly next to them was a slice of what Squid was certain was Uncle’s honeyed ham. He looked back at Aunt.
    She smiled at him, her cheeks nearly splitting open with the unnatural movement. Squid had never seen Aunt smile before, not even to Uncle. It was so oddly unfamiliar that it was more terrifying than reassuring. Normally she wouldn’t even bother speaking to him, she would just glare at him across the room and ask