Keeper of Secrets I’m sure I must’ve looked like a complete fool, standing smack in the middle of the road, turning around as I tried to figure out where the voice was coming from. The closest house looked like a run-down shack. It didn’t even appear lived-in. There wasn’t a lick of paint on the place. A jungle of overgrown vines and big clumps of baskets swallowed up the front porch. Scruffy chickens pecked in the yard. “Boy, up here.” Among the vines and baskets, there was a sudden flash of color as something moved. Thought maybe I saw a hand waving. “I’m setting up on the porch,” a voice called. “Gate’s open.” Never noticed the gate until then. Right in front of me was a plain wooden gate with a faded sign hanging on it: OPEN. BASKETS FOR SALE. Still feeling cautious, I stepped carefully toward the porch, squinting into its green, dapply shadows. Somebody was sitting there, I could tell that. Only the person didn’t seem to have much shape. As I got closer, I could see the outlines of a lady who might’ve stepped straight outta slavery times from the way she looked.
