Down the Hill
by Carl R Bettis
Artful flailing of limbs and cries of pain and panic disguised the control behind Jill's much-practiced tumble down the hillside. She saw no witnesses, but one can't be too careful. She fetched up next to the twitching boy.
"Jack! Jack," she cried, "are you hurt bad?" The crack she'd heard was not, as she'd hoped, his neck snapping. Blood and hair clung to the jagged rock behind him. The crown of his head was misshapen. He would live, after a fashion. She'd seen such injuries before, among the sheep. He would never be a man again.