Benny began his walk back to the ferry, pulling his backpack tighter onto his back. He hadn’t realized how far he had walked to the busted dock and finally, two miles from town, he stopped to rest on the side of the road. Across the street he spotted a wooden crescent, covered in peeling white paint. He lit a cigarette and surveyed the box from a distance. Three cars passed. Benny stood.
Benny crossed the street and approached the box. He placed his hand against the uppermost edge and pried the lid from its body. Peering inside, Benny saw only darkness. He rolled himself into the box and pushed the lid back into place over himself. Benny used to be afraid of the dark, but his mom once told him that if he was very quiet, there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing would find him. Later, when his mother was slipping away, she had told him she was afraid. He told her to just be quiet. Nothing could find her in the darkness in she would just hush.
Benny reopened the lid. If he didn’t continue walking, he would miss the ferry