Samantha told him about the Russians. Her parents told her not to, of course, but she had to tell someone and Charlie was her best friend. He sat beside her, under the tree in her backyard, and squinted at her through the sun filtering through the leaves.
The remains from their picnic lunch were scattered around them — empty store-brand yogurt cups, the leftover crust from Charlie’s sandwich, half-full cans of pop. Samantha used her spoon to dig a hole in the dirt idly. She liked the feel of the dry ground breaking and crumbling as she forced the spoon in.
“Aren’t you scared?” he asked.
She shook her head. “They don’t know I’m the princess they’re looking for.”
He nodded. “That makes sense.”
Read more at: Digging Through the Fat, A Journal for Cultural Omnivores
Amber Baird, Author 
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