“Is this the right one? Where is our treehouse, Jen?” My brother, Jimmy, glared at the gnarled oak. “Has it been so long?”
“I’m afraid so. I suppose it rotted after twenty years.” I squinted against sunlight, and remembered building that treehouse.
We were meticulous in our design. Reclaimed wood made up the walls and floor, and a longhorn skull adorned the privacy partition, erected for secluded reading. We’d hung our own drawings up, but I guessed the pictures had long since disintegrated.
I peered up. What was that?
The longhorn skull. The only remnant of a happy childhood playground.