I hear my sister faintly, calling: "Help, help! I'm hooked!"
I am up and searching, by the sea. My father and I fan out. It is day and there are hummocks of grass and dunes and sand. North Carolina, where my paternal grandparents lived. I am terrified that she is caught on fishhooks, in the water, that she will drown.
"Chris!" I am shouting, "Where are you!"
"Help!" I hear, faintly.
My father and I are coming from opposite sides, in the dunes. An opossum scuttles by me, then two smaller ones. And a third. Gnawed by possums: I shudder. I see my father from the top of a larger dune, bending over. I am hoping he's found her.
I wake, hearing scuttling. I am sleeping in the tree house for the first time. I've seen signs of mice and I scrabble and thump on the floor myself. Then I lie still. More scrabbling. But it is branches. It was very still when I went to sleep and now it is starting to rain. The rain hits the roof and the branches move. Wind. There isn't enough wind for the tree house itself to be moving.
There is a family of raccoons in the other big tree. But they aren't bothering me.
I settle to sleep again, listening to the rain, thinking about the word hooked.
we:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD8tjhVO1Tc&feature=youtu.be