Without Wings

Flying Mind

I stand upon the rigid wall, beneath dirty clouds that hide the sun.

I know to be free from this place is to fall, and in losing stone, I find my wings.

Must something be lost before it can be found? Could the myth of blue be real but unseen? Far above the only reality I know?

I exist only with that ruptured sense of self—that cage I can never leave behind for very long.

But deep, deep inside, where I am alone and safe, I will forever see and breathe that open, eternal blue.

I will always have my wings.

~D.E. Ladd ’98

Will Nedeau’s small legs felt detached and rubbery as he crunched through the dead leaves like a rabbit chased by wolves. The spicy leaf dust in the air burned his lungs, and the books stuffed in his backpack pulled on his shoulders, weighing him down. The corner of one book dug into his skin like a dull knife blade, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. Through his labored breathing and noisy footsteps, he could hear the ones chasing him—three of them, clomping through the woods close behind. Will thought about dropping his books, but shedding the heavy backpack would only cause trouble with his parents and teachers, and it wouldn’t guarantee his escape.

A cramp bit into his thigh, and he stumbled. Menacing voices split the warm autumn air. Gleeful shrieking, howling, laughing. Closing in fast. Will regained his footing and picked up the pace, choking on the sticky saliva clinging to the walls of his throat. Leaves covered the path, and he couldn’t remember which way to go.

Sneaking into the woods to avoid them had been a mistake. He had taken the wrong path and ended up farther from his home, closer to the creek.

Will couldn’t go back, so he cut deeper into the woods, fighting his way through the wiry underbrush. Thorns snagged his hair, his clothes, his backpack—horrible little claws and skeletal fingers intent on slowing him down long enough for the others to catch him.

He huffed in the dusty air, his throat burning. Heavy footsteps shuffled through leaves and snapped dry twigs. Voices hurled bits of profanity and laughter, calling his name.

Closer.

Closer.

Right behind him.

Will fled along a low incline littered with rotten tree stumps and dead twigs. Open ground. He saw the street fifty yards away, at the top of a small ridge, just past the little pine grove ahead.

He would make it.

And then—

His foot sank into a soft pocket of earth he hadn’t seen.

His ankle twisted.

Will let out a short scream and collapsed at the base of a small hill, books and all. Defeated, he burst into tears.

A few short seconds later, the boys descended on him—a trio of jackals cackling at their wounded prey. Tony Mataya reached him first. He was the meanest of them, a sadistic alpha with a large round head and beady, snakelike eyes. Tony glared down at Will. His thick, sluggish lips flapped as he hollered, silvery webs of saliva flying from his mouth.

"You don’t run from me! You don’t ever run from me! Ungh!" Tony punched Will in the in the mouth, splitting his lip. Will tasted his own blood.

Nathan Cane yanked the bulging backpack from Will’s shoulders and dumped it on the ground, his lips bent into a sneer and his thin blue eyes flashing beneath golden locks of hair.

Paul Grisby scratched his dark crew cut and wiped at his pointed nose. Yeah, you don’t run from Tony! He kicked Will’s books and papers about.

You little bastard. Tony’s pudgy little fists went on pummeling Will, who curled into a ball and took the shots. Another to the nose, one to the jaw. Will tried to keep his eyes closed. Darkness felt better, safer. Tony grabbed Will’s arm and pulled it away from his body so he could punch him in the stomach.

Will opened his eyes as Tony drew back again and saw something tan and flesh-like—something that resembled a foot—fly out of nowhere and smash him in the face.

The concussion threw Tony backward. He landed, dazed, on a rotten stump, blood flowing from his nose. His bulk crushed the soft mound of decaying wood, and within seconds he jumped up, swatting at hordes of fire ants that had immediately gone to work on him. He cried and shrieked, slapping at his arms and back as the angry little creatures attacked him.

You little fuckers feel like fighting? Huh? The person who’d kicked Tony in the face charged forward. C’mere, you little shit!

The voice sounded much older than any of them. It was fierce and aggressive…and it belonged to a girl.

Will wiped at his eyes to see what would happen next.

The older girl jumped down from the small hill she was standing on. Swift as lightning, she grabbed hold of Nathan’s shirt. He pleaded and whined about how he hadn’t done anything.

"I saw you!" The girl punched him in the face three times so quickly Nathan didn’t even react until the last shot had knocked him to the ground. His hands went up to his pummeled face, and he cried like a child half his age.

Tony scampered off through the woods, still swatting at the ants.

The girl saw him. "You! C’mere, you fat little fucker!"

She was fast.

In less than a dozen strides, she caught him. Kicking Tony’s legs out from under him, she rolled him over and gave him five good blows to the face. Will heard Tony bawling and sucking back his bloody snot as the girl stood back up. She kicked Tony in the side of the head and then scanned the woods—probably looking for Paul.

Will’s heart thumped with anxiety as he watched the tall girl with the long, tanned legs and bare feet. She wore cutoff jeans and a faded blue-and-green T-shirt. Her dark wavy hair spilled over her shoulders and sailed in the wind. Will stared in shocked silence as she drew closer. The girl had a mesmerizing face—dark eyebrows slanted in anger, a small nose, and full lips. Her eyes reminded Will of black pearls, and by degrees, they softened to a rich brown as she came to stand in the light before him. She studied him, crossing her arms and cocking her head to one side.

You okay, kid? She offered him a warm, sympathetic grin.

Will didn’t know what to do or say, so he didn’t do or say anything. All he could manage was a slack-jawed stare. People in Whitley, North Carolina had a certain way of speaking, and the girl in front of him sounded different. She had a funny accent that dragged out certain words, and she seemed to have trouble pronouncing the letter R—it came out sounding more like Aah.

The girl looked around the woods again, searching for Will’s attackers, he supposed, but it was just the two of them now.

They do that to you a lot, don’t they? she asked.

Will managed to nod this time.

Can you make it home on your own?

Will nodded again. He kept staring, studying her as if she were some kind of alien being or superhero. He wondered where she’d come from. One minute he was sure to be pummeled in the woods, and the next she was fighting off his attackers. It was a miracle.

A word of advice, kid: take the street when you leave school from now on. Okay? More witnesses there to help you. She reached down and ruffled his hair. Maybe I’ll see ya around. She almost stepped on his hand with her dirty foot as she started back up the small hill.

Will tried to stand so he could see which way she would go, but he let out a howl as soon as he tried to put weight on his ankle.

Footsteps in the dry leaves came jogging back toward him. The girl reappeared. You okay? What’s wrong?

Will pulled up his pant leg to reveal a pink and swollen ankle.

Jesus. Look at your ankle. She crouched down by his side and touched the tender flesh. Will made a hissing noise through clenched teeth.

That hurt? Sorry. Shit, you can’t walk on this.

She pulled her hair out of the way and draped it over her left shoulder. Will noticed a small, antique-looking key on a silver chain dangling around her neck. The heart-shaped key looked gray until the light kissed it, revealing its weathered silver finish. Will wondered if it unlocked some secret hideout she had in the woods.

Okay, we need to get you home. I can’t leave you here, she said. Those little shitheads might come back. Here, put your arm around my shoulder. That’s it. Up we go. She lifted him effortlessly from the ground. Put your weight on your good leg. You ready? Okay, let’s walk now.

It wasn’t far to Will’s neighborhood, and along the way neither of them said much. Occasionally, she asked him if it hurt, but otherwise, nothing. Will took the opportunity to study the unusual girl with the worn-out shorts and bare feet up close. He leaned in closer and inhaled the scent of her thick dark hair. It smelled a little bit like candy. She didn’t seem to notice when he turned his head to smell her, so he kept doing it. There was something alluring about the way she smelled, a pleasant mystery, exotic enough to belong to a someone like her.

When they stepped out of the woods, she said it would be easier to stay on the grass, so they did.

You can try to put some weight on it if you want, she said.

Will tried. It still hurt, but he didn’t say so.

They ambled across seven or eight backyards. By the time they reached Will’s house, he felt like he might be able to walk on his own, but he chose to hang on to her anyway. When they arrived at his porch, she helped him sit down on the bottom step.

Can you get inside by yourself? She swept her wild hair out of her eyes again.

Will nodded, half-expecting her to fly away at any moment, like the heroes he’d read about in comics.

You don’t talk very much, do you? Her smile was lovely and kind, and Will felt an absence of time as he marveled at it. He almost shook his head but decided he should probably say something.

What’s your name? he asked.

Christina. Christina Averly. You can call me Chris if you want. How about you?

"William Nedeau. People call me Will. Not Bill. There’s no B in William. I don’t know how people get Bill from William. It bothers me."

Christina laughed, and her dark eyes narrowed a little. "I’ll remember that, Will. It was nice to meet you, even under such unpleasant conditions. Oh shit! We forgot your books. She looked back the way they’d come, biting at her thumbnail, then faced him again. Are you going to make it to school tomorrow? On that ankle?"

Will shrugged. I think so. I’m pretty tough. I’ll put some ice on it. It’ll be okay.

She reached down and touched his lip. Better put some ice on that too.

Will stared at her. What grade are you in? He suspected she was a lot older. She was tall compared to him, or even Tony and his friends.

Sixth, she said.

Will’s eyes widened. She was old. Probably eleven, maybe even twelve.

"What grade are you in?" she asked.

Second. Will lowered his head, embarrassed.

Really? You seem pretty smart for a second grader.

Will raised his head. Yeah?

Sure. I’ll bet you’re one of the smarter kids in your class.

Will nodded and smiled with pride. I am. I’m one of the five smartest kids. Sometimes I ask questions my teacher can’t answer.

Christina ruffled his hair again then looked up at the sky. The mysterious antique-looking key dangled outside her T-shirt. Without looking, she tucked it back in.

Well, I gotta go. My aunt’s a worry worm. I have to help her bake cookies for some fundraiser thing in town. But I’ll go and fetch your books later tonight and leave ’em on your porch. Okay?

"You…you’re going into the woods? In the dark?" he asked.

"Sure. There’s not an animal alive brave enough to fuck with me. Man or beast. I’ll see you later."

Off she went, running across people’s yards like a beautiful two-legged gazelle.

Will sat on his porch, still half in shock, with the obscenities Christina had slung about stuck in his head. His father would whip him good if he heard Will say anything half as bad. Even though he wouldn’t be home from work for at least another hour, Will swore he could hear the old man’s rough voice bellowing out his name…

Will? Where you at? The voice rang out from somewhere inside the garage, gravelly and deep over the tinny sound of the Doobie Brothers singing through a damaged radio.

It took Will a moment to align his thoughts. He stood behind the garage, facing west, staring out over the graveyard of junked cars to the gray horizon beyond. Lukewarm breezes whispered past, teasing him with a promise of summer, but that was all it was—a promise. The lingering odors of dusty junk and dry-rotted old tires wafted in to stain the air, soiling the idea of warmer weather and sunshine. A drop of cold rain pelted his cheek, reminding him of how short and stubborn summer could be in many parts of Oregon—when it finally dragged itself into being. The small city of Cottage Grove was no exception. Nestled amongst rounded-off green hills and crisscrossed by rivers and streams, the town had plenty of charm and character, but neither one had any effect on the unpredictable weather.

Will? The old man shuffled up behind him, dusty gravel crunching underfoot.

The cool wind fiddled with a small key dangling around Will’s neck—the same small key Chris had been wearing the day they’d met. He’d forgotten he was wearing it.

Yeah. Will clutched the key in his fist and pressed it against his chest in a strange salute.

His father, Hank, ground to a stop beside him and exhaled like an old truck applying its air brakes.

Been lookin’ all over. Hank bumped up the visor of his ragged ball cap and scratched the leathery canvas of his forehead. He had aged a lot over the past ten years. Not surprising, considering everything Will had put him through.

Ten years. Jesus, where the hell did they go?

Will looked down, glancing at his still-clenched fist. Scuffed, soiled, and marred by cuts, old and new—a grown man’s fist. His hands had been so small when he’d met Chris. Tiny, in fact. At five foot ten, he’d grown up to be shorter than Hank by an inch or two. But the old man had shriveled and hunched down over the years, like a skinny white raisin with legs. The two bore little resemblance. Will had inherited his mother’s brown eyes, button nose, and smaller frame, and he’d put on some muscle over the past decade, which set him apart from Hank even more. Will had retained most of his boyish looks, aside from the heaviness in his eyes.

He felt Hank’s eyes on him. His dad reached over and gently tried to pry open his fist.

What’cha got there?

Nothin’. Will clenched the key tighter and raised his shoulder to block Hank’s reach.

Hank withdrew, letting his weathered old hand fall to his side. I’d say it’s none of my business, but it kind of is my business. He pointed at Will’s fist. Don’t let Emma catch you with that. You know how she gets.

Will gave Hank half a glance then stared off at the horizon again.

Day’s not over yet, Hank said. "Still got work to do ’fore you head over to your appointment."

A flurry of dread stirred inside Will at the word. It sounded so harmless when lined up against where he would actually be going. Less of an appointment and more of a meeting to get his ticket punched, so to speak. It never lasted more than twenty or thirty minutes, but it always felt like hours.

Hank scratched his sandpaper chin. Need you inside. Finish up on that Dodge.

I know. Be there in a minute.

Hank nodded at Will and started shuffling back toward the garage. He made it two steps before turning around.

"Comes a time when a man’s gotta leave the past in the past. You hear me?"

Will had heard that from him at least a thousand times before. Yeah, Pop. I hear you. Will heard him take another step and pause again. He knew Hank often struggled to put his thoughts into words. All anyone could do was wait for him to line up what he had to say so he could say it.

I know it ain’t easy sometimes, keepin’ everything straight. But you, uh…you got a good job here. Workin’ for a smart, handsome guy…

Will’s mouth bent into half a smile.

You got a woman at home who loves you. Got a shot at a normal life. Couple more weeks, and you won’t have to put up with Hossley’s shit anymore.

Hossley. Will’s parole officer. The name snatched the budding smile off Will’s face. He clenched his teeth and choked back a flood of anger. Every second with Hossley felt like a thorn dipped in rubbing alcohol stabbed under his skin. Four years, eleven months, and twenty-one days he’d been putting up with that asshole.

Will took a moment to meet Hank’s watery blue eyes. So different from how they’d looked when Will was a boy. Back then they had reminded him of scary blue flames, the perfect complement to Hank’s angry scowl and clenched teeth. Will remembered him being angry and yelling a lot. Hank looked tired now, fragile. Far too worn down for a man who had yet to hit sixty. His hair was so thin and gray it amounted to little more than a smoky shadow on his freckled scalp. Time had bent his slim frame into a question mark, the years draining away his confidence and resolve one drop at a time. And Will felt responsible for it. Even now, an invisible barrier remained between them—the kind of wall that went up in the wake of a betrayal. Hank had turned on Will ten years ago. And Will had yet to forgive him for it.

I’ll be all right, Will said. Just sortin’ things out. That’s all.

Hank lingered, his knotted old head bobbing between his narrow shoulders. He opened his mouth as if to say something but gave a dismissive wave instead. Then he turned and shuffled back into the garage.

Will looked down and opened his clenched fist.

The antique key, looped through a length of chain around his neck, dropped out. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Such a small thing. It would be so easy to lose. And yet, he’d managed to keep from doing exactly that. For fourteen years—ever since the day he’d been forced to move from Whitley, North Carolina, all the way to Cottage Grove as a kid—he’d kept that little key safe. And he still had no idea what it unlocked.

The spicy odor of spent motor oil and clove cigarette smoke greeted Will as he returned to the garage bay. Chester Adams—everyone called him Jester—bobbed his head to the rhythm of The Guess Who’s American Woman as he turned a screwdriver inside a small import. Little waves of static cradled the song, which always annoyed Will. Jester didn’t give a shit—he’d never once complained about the beat-up radio’s crackling reception. He reminded Will of a mellow beatnik with his black watch cap, pencil-thin beard, and pungent clove cigarettes.

Will bunched his eyebrows and scowled. Smells like someone left a pumpkin pie in the oven too long. That shit reeks, man. How about cinnamon gum? I’ll go get you a pack.

Jester took a deep drag and blew a funnel of smoke toward the ceiling.

Dick, Will muttered.

He returned to fiddling with the Dodge’s defective starter, but his concentration was blown. Each time the small key bumped against his chest inside his shirt, it felt like a spirit from the past knocking on the door to his soul, begging him to remember what had been. But not all of it—only the parts he wanted to remember. And God knew there was plenty he wished he could forget. Specifically, he avoided thinking about his arrest ten years ago, and the painful consequences that followed. No point in thinking about any of that. Nothing good ever came from dredging up mud from the bottom of the pond. But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about when he’d first met Christina, and that always led him to remember how, four years later, they had been forced to say goodbye. Today was the fourteenth anniversary of that painful event.

Hey. You should probably get goin’. And don’t get pulled over, hear me?

Hank’s voice snapped Will out of his thoughts with the jarring force of a mousetrap on his knuckles. He looked up at his dad, equal parts dazed and annoyed.

Why you always gotta sneak up on people? Clear your throat or wear a bell or somethin’.

Hank shrugged. "You’re always sayin’ Hossley’s an asshole even when you’re on time. What’s he like when you’re late?"

Will checked his watch. Shit.

He dashed outside, hopped in the beat-up old Nissan truck they used for picking up and delivering parts, and fired it up. It purred and rumbled the way any truck with over two hundred thousand miles on it would. The radio didn’t work, and neither did the heater. He could only hope the bald front tires would get him across town without blowing. Jester and Hank insisted they still had plenty of life in them, but the steel belts had started showing, so Will knew it was only a matter of time. The little truck growled as Will tried to shift into first. It finally went, and he rolled off down the road, lurching every time he shifted gears.

He did his best to keep it at the speed limit, though the idea of being late made his foot a little heavier. Several times he caught himself creeping up to ten miles an hour over and had to back off. Will cursed his life: running late for an appointment he was already dreading. It felt like rushing to a torture session where he was the guest of honor.

A bump in the road tapped the key against his chest, and Will started to drift back into his trance—until he slammed into the day of his arrest. That was all it took to force him back to reality, a solid jolt from the electric fence he’d put up in his mind so many years ago.

He blinked and pulled his focus back to the road. He was cruising up Highway 99 at five miles over the speed limit, the rattling engine of the old pickup sounding more like a worn-out moped. A steady river of cars passed him, every one of their drivers in a much bigger hurry to get to wherever they were going. Ten short minutes later, he turned onto East Main Street and pulled off into a cracked parking lot, the truck sputtering over to the north end of the sad-looking strip of small businesses. Aside from Hossley’s office and a hair-and-nail salon with a faded sign, the complex was vacant.

Will pulled in two spaces away from a brand-new red Mustang convertible—Hossley’s true love. The first time Will drove there, he’d made the mistake of parking too close to it.

"Is that your ugly shit box next to my car? I don’t fuckin’ think so. Get your dumb ass out there, and move it. Now."

Ever since then, Will made sure to allow at least two spaces between his truck and the Mustang.

Will parked, hopped out, and hurried up to the entrance, partly relieved to see the dark stubble on the back of Hossley’s big head over the back of his chair, as opposed to his angry face staring out. He had the phone receiver pressed to his ear and his feet propped up on a short file cabinet against the wall. Will took a breath and tugged open the door.

I don’t care if she’s a little chubby. I can work with that. Hossley tilted his head back and let out a deafening bark of a laugh. No, man. She turned nineteen last month—she’s fair game.

Will tried not to listen, but Hossley was impossible to ignore. He turned in his chair enough to look at Will with his small blue eyes. The thick lenses of his aviator glasses made them look even smaller. I gotta call you back, man. A stray dog just wandered into my office, and he’s stinkin’ up the place. Hossley sneered at Will. Maybe I’ll put the fucker out of its misery, like someone shoulda done a long time ago.

And so it begins…

All right. Later. Hossley hung up the phone, planted his feet on the floor, and rose to his full six-foot-one-inch height. He looked at his watch. I know you’re borderline retarded, but I thought you could at least tell time.

I’m sorry for being late. Will knew the less he said the better.

"Oh, you’re sorry all right. Jesus. You smell like a goddamn spice rack. What the fuck is that stench?" Hossley held up a hand to cover his nose and mouth.

Guy I work with, he smokes clove cigarettes—

Sweet bleeding Christ. You’re about the creepiest little shit I’ve ever had to put up with, you know that? And I’ve had some creeps come through here. Hossley marched over to the door and looked outside. You park that shit heap near my car?

No.

"No what?"

No, sir. I didn’t park beside your car.

Hossley stood behind him. It was something he liked to do—a game he liked to play. Will knew better than to move, much less turn around. He stood as tall as he could and stared straight ahead—all part of the drill.

Your neck looks dirtier than a pig’s ass. I’ll bet you never take a bath, do you?

Will kept his eyes focused on the three plaques and numerous framed awards hanging behind Hossley’s desk, all of them military related. A sharp sting thumped Will’s left earlobe as Hossley flicked it.

These nasty things work, or are they too gummed up? I asked you a question, puke.

Will clenched his jaw. I haven’t showered yet today. Sir.

Hossley moved around to Will’s left side, his thick-soled boots adding another inch to his height. He crossed his arms and shook his head then moved to sit behind his desk, where he sized Will up for a solid minute. It’s just so…fuckin’ sad. How old are you now? Twenty-six? Shit. When I was your age, I was a goddamn staff sergeant, hoss. He grinned at Will. Had one guy come through here a few years before you came along, scrawny little maggot—not as pathetic as you but sadder than a three-legged puppy. Anyway, this fuckin’ guy had a month and change left on his parole. So, what’s he do? Steals a goddamn breakfast burrito and knocks over an old lady as he’s running out the door. She hits her head, ends up in a coma, and the maggot gets ten years for theft and assault.

Hossley stood up again and approached Will. He’d been standing there for less than two minutes, and it already felt like five hours.

I’ll bet you’re gonna screw up just like that maggot did. You got what, a couple weeks left? I’ll bet you my car out there you don’t make it. He thrust his vise of a hand out. I’m not playin’ around. My car says you screw up before you finish parole. Shake on it. Go ahead.

Will kept his eyes fixed on the wall behind Hossley’s desk. One of the framed awards was a Certificate of Commendation. Will wondered if it was for being the biggest walking dick the Marines had ever seen.

God, what a chickenshit. Hossley jabbed a finger so close to Will’s eye he flinched. "See, that’s how I know you’re gonna fail. You don’t even have enough confidence to bet on yourself. What does that say about you? He went to the front of his desk, sat on the edge, and folded his arms. He reached up and rubbed his chin, then glanced at his watch. How’s work goin’? You showin’ up on time? You steal anything? What’s goin’ on over there?"

Will’s throat had gone as dry as baked sand. It’s going well. Sir. I show up on time. I don’t steal.

Guess you’re lucky your dad’s a saint, huh? Or a moron like you. I can’t tell which. Hossley let out a soft laugh then pushed himself up off his desk. He leaned in close to Will’s ear. You’re not gonna make it, hoss. You’re gonna screw up again. And I hope I’m there to see it.

Will kept his eyes locked on the wall behind Hossley’s desk, wondering how the colossal prick would deal with not being able to torture him anymore. Will hoped it would kill him. Just a couple more weeks.

Hossley backed away and stared at Will for several long seconds. He shook his head and laughed softly. Checking his watch, he said, Get the fuck outta my sight. You’re stinkin’ up my office.

Will turned and strode to the door, his nerves ablaze with anger and regret.

Good luck, Billy Boy, Hossley called after him.

Back outside, Will went to his beat-up old truck and hopped in. When he turned the key, it wouldn’t start.

Son of a bitch. Not now.

Hossley appeared in the glass door and looked out. A sharp little grin shaped his thin lips.

Will tried to start the truck again. The hammered engine coughed and whined in vain.

Hossley opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He stared at Will, folded his arms across his broad chest, and smiled, as if savoring Will’s misery.

Will tried again to start the truck. It almost caught then gave up. He pinched his eyes closed and cursed what his life had become. He hated his father for pressing charges against him. He hated Christina for cutting off contact between them. He hated Hossley for reopening old wounds. He felt like the worn-out old truck himself—beaten down, falling apart, and of no real use to anyone anymore. But more than that, he felt disconnected from everything and everyone. Adrift.

He reached for the ignition key again, afraid to make another attempt to start the truck—afraid to give Hossley a reason to smile wider. The past returned to add to his torment: he’d encountered his share of bullies in his life, as a kid and later in juvie, and then in prison when he turned eighteen. Looking out his windshield at Hossley, he wondered if he’d ever be free of them. He wondered if anything would ever change.

Will pinched the key between his thumb and index finger and gave it a twist.

The little truck finally grumbled to life. Will gunned the accelerator, forcing a cloud of blackish-gray exhaust out of the tailpipe. The dark cloud wafted toward Hossley’s car.

Hossley’s smile fell. He uncrossed his arms and marched toward Will’s truck. Will pretended not to see him as he backed up, shifted into first, and sped away.

As he raced down the road, Will looked at his right hand. The way it trembled, one might think he’d just robbed a bank. He glanced at the speedometer and found he was doing fifteen miles per hour over the limit. As much as he wanted to go even faster, he eased off the gas pedal and let the truck slow down.

Will took a moment to reflect on the time he’d spent locked up, most of which had been tacked on to his original sentence as a result of his violent behavior. He might have stayed on a destructive path had it not been for the extensive counseling he’d received, his rekindled passion for reading, and a conscious effort to forgive Chris for abandoning him.

The key hanging around his neck felt tiny between his fingers, a fragile link to better times. And focusing on those better times made it so much easier to push away all the dark memories he wanted so much to forget.

Despite that, he couldn’t ignore Hossley’s prediction that Will would screw up, that he wouldn’t make it to the end of his parole and would end up back inside. It sounded like a challenge, and even though Will couldn’t imagine a scenario that would cause such a prediction to come true, in the back of his mind, he worried that he might end up proving Hossley right.

Will drove to the other side of town and turned off onto a quiet dead-end street named Cobbler’s Court. He let the beater roll over the cracked pavement until it reached the end of the street. Emma Tate’s double-wide was one of the nicer homes on the street. She’d just had it painted a pastel-lemon color with white trim. A white picket fence encircled it, and a gnarled old cherry tree shaded the front yard.

Will pulled off the road and parked on a patch of loose gravel—Emma never let him park in the driveway on account of the truck’s oil leak. He turned off the engine and sat in silence. Hossley’s voice lingered like a stain in Will’s mind. Hossley always dredged up the bitter past when Will saw him, reminding him of everything—and everyone—he had lost over the past ten years.

Ten years.

Had it really been that long? Will had been sixteen when he’d stolen his father’s car. The past decade didn’t look much different from the broken pavement out his back window. And what could be done about it now? He was an ex-con. His father barely trusted him. Christina had cut him out of her life, and his parole officer was a flaming dick who wanted him dead.

Will saw Emma’s little white Honda in his sideview mirror as she turned onto the street. She tooted her horn as she passed and turned into the driveway. Will sucked in a deep breath and combed his fingers through his hair. He felt nearly as anxious as he had in Hossley’s office. With a forced smile, he rammed his shoulder into the truck’s fussy door and stepped out.

How’d it go today? Emma tugged a couple of grocery bags out of the back seat. She hardly ever used her trunk for some reason Will had forgotten. She wore lavender hospital scrubs, her dirty-blond hair twisted into a bun. She’d gone in at three that morning, so this was the first Will had seen of her all day.

He went over and helped her with the bags. It went. It’s over till next time.

A few more, and you’ll be all done. She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

Emma had a giant battery that let her run all day and well into the night sometimes. She woke up at two a.m., worked from three a.m. until one thirty p.m. five, sometimes six, days a week, and almost always came home in a better mood than Will.

As they made dinner inside, Emma chattered about work, telling him funny stories about her patients as she peeled carrots. This cute little old lady came in today complaining about kidney pain. I asked her if she was sure it was her kidney, and she said, ‘Oh yeah. It hurts right here.’ And she poked at her tummy just under her ribs. Emma tapped the vegetable peeler against the stainless-steel sink and laughed. I smiled, and she got mad at me. But we sorted it out and got her taken care of.

Will smiled and chuckled. I wonder where she would’ve pointed if she’d had a pain in her ass.

"Shut up. You’re a pain in the ass. Emma slapped his arm. Cut up the onions."

Ugh. Really? I hate that shit.

She furrowed her brow at him. "Yes, really. God you’re worse than my little niece."

Will bent down and tugged open a lower cabinet door where they stored the dry goods.

Just got off a ten-hour shift, she added. "You should be doing all the cooking."

I worked today. Besides, I wouldn’t want to spoil ya. How many onions?

Emma shucked away with the peeler, flinging little slivers of orange into the sink. "One of the smaller ones is plenty. Spoil me? Hmph. I wonder if you even know how."

Maybe I’ll surprise you one day. Will peeled the flaky outer skin off the onion and pulled out the cutting board. He enjoyed their evening banter, especially after a hard day he desperately wanted to forget.

One more day of work, Emma said. God, it’s been a long week. We should go down to the lake on Saturday. Get outta here for a bit. Want to? She glanced at him and grinned.

Even though it was the first week of June, the cold and damp weather made it feel more like early spring, if not the tail end of winter. Dorena Lake was hard to beat on a warm summer day, but overcast skies, wind, and a chance of rain diminished its appeal. 

Will cut the ends off the onion before turning to look at her. It’s still cold as hell out at the lake. You’ll freeze your ass off.

Oh please. We’ll bring a blanket, no big deal. She set the carrots down beside the cutting board and grabbed a skillet off the wall. It’ll be good to get out of here, away from the hospital, away from your dad’s garage…

It’s probably gonna rain again on Saturday. Shivering in the rain—is that your idea of fun? He gave her a coy smile and scratched his neck, too distracted in his duties to notice he’d pushed his shirt collar down a couple of inches.

What’s the matter? You made of sugar, sugar? She laughed at her own joke with the innocence of a child.

Will turned to face her. I’m worried about you catching your death. You don’t do well in the cold.

A heavy silence filled the room. Emma’s happy expression wilted before his eyes. She took a slow step toward him. Her eyes flitted down to his collar.

What’s the matter? he asked.

Emma glanced up at him and frowned. She stared at his collar again. What is that around your neck?

The temperature in the room went up fifteen degrees in an instant.

The key around his neck—Christina’s heart-shaped key.

He’d forgotten to take it off.

Will reached for his collar to hide it, but Emma’s small hand shot forward with the speed of a striking cobra. She seized the chain before he could stop her and gave it a sharp yank. It sawed into the back of his neck and snapped in her grip.

Emma, don’t—

She stepped away from him, holding the key out to her right side. What the fuck is this, Will? Hmm?

Listen to me—

What did I tell you? What did I fucking tell you?

Will started to raise his hand, to reach out for the key, but let it drop. Emma, please.

No, uh-uh. I warned you. I told you to keep this fucking thing in a box so I would never see it. And what do you do?

I was just…

"You were just what? Hmm? Reminiscing about the psycho chick who bailed on you while you were doing time? Emma held the key in front of her face. She looked past it into Will’s eyes. What was it? Three years ago? About the same time of year. I told you then I never wanted to see it again. And you promised—you promised me—I never would. Then last year I found it in your pocket when I was doing the wash. Fuck. I shoulda thrown it away then. But you swore you didn’t put it on, that it was just a mistake. A mistake! Like you grabbed this—she shook it at him—instead of your car keys. And I let it go." Emma circled around toward the sink. Will instinctively backed away to give her some space. He had a scar on his right hand from the last time she’d lashed out at him—courtesy of a broken beer bottle.

I’m sorry, Em. I shouldn’t have put it on. I was…

She widened her eyes at him. "You were what? Say it. Nostalgic over— Her voice cracked, and she stifled a sob, and that was so much worse than being yelled at. Over your fucking soul mate? Jesus, Will. What the hell do I have to do?"

It has nothing to do with—

Emma snatched up a porcelain spoon rest and hurled it at his head. Will was lucky to duck in time. It flew over his head and shattered against the wall with a crack like a rifle shot.

Shut the fuck up! Tears painted wet lines down her cheeks. I deserve better than this. You know?

Will nodded in silence and hung his head. There was nothing he could say or do to take away the sting he’d inflicted. He wished he’d never told her about Christina, but Emma had insisted their relationship be based on honesty and trust. So he’d told her the truth, showed her the one remaining link between the boy he was and the flawed man he’d become—a small key on a chain. And Emma had allowed him to keep it as long as she never saw it. That was the deal. And he’d welched on that deal three times now.

The grinding whir of the garbage disposal sawed the air in half.

Will looked up to see Emma dangling the key over the sink.

If I dropped this, would you stick your hand in after it? she asked. How many fingers would you lose to get it back? Two? Three? All of them?

Will couldn’t take his eyes off the key. His heart pounded with horror at the idea of it being gone—of the only link between him and Christina being destroyed forever. Even though she’d turned her back on him, he shuddered at the thought of losing that key. Because if he lost that key, the one tangible object that proved she was real, he knew all the memories would start to fade. And before he knew it, Christina would be nothing more than a colorful dream that faded a little more with each passing moment until even that was gone.

Emma’s bottom lip quivered. How many fingers would you chop off to get her back?

Will stared at the little heart-shaped key swinging back and forth on its chain over the humming disposal. Of course, there was no way to get Christina back, and honestly, he’d given up on the idea years ago—way back when she’d told him to stop writing to her. He still felt the ache from the rusty blade she’d used to puncture his heart. It wasn’t about getting her back. It was about not forgetting what she’d meant to him and what he’d meant to her. A lifetime ago.

Emma went to drop the key into the disposal and—

I don’t want her back. Will met Emma’s cold stare and looked away. That’s not what it’s about.

Emma lifted the key a few inches away from certain destruction.

Putting thoughts into words had never come easily for Will. Like his father, he had to take his time to line them up in his head before speaking. I was a scared little kid once, always running home, trying to keep from gettin’ beat up again. Never thought anyone would care enough to help me. He looked up at Emma again, looked her straight in the eyes. The first time I ever remember having hope…was the day she showed up. And she was wearing that key. Now it’s all I have left. I keep it because it reminds me that hope is real.

Emma frowned at him. She held the key over the sink for a good thirty seconds more then switched off the disposal. Crossing the kitchen to where Will stood, she held the key up between them.

"I’m your hope now, Will. You understand? Me. But if you still need this…"

Will reached for it, and she let it drop to the floor by his feet.

Make sure I never see it again. Because if I do, I swear to Christ I’ll make it disappear. And I’ll go with it. She shoved her way past him, went into their bedroom, and slammed the door.

Will hesitated a moment before crouching down to pick up the key. He dropped it and the broken chain into his palm. A tiny little relic of what had once been, that was all it was—a tangible fragment of his shattered past. And he couldn’t bear the thought of ever letting it go.

After going out to the truck and tossing the key and broken chain into the glove box, Will went back inside and finished making dinner by himself. He wiped his hands and inched his way toward the bedroom door. The faint sound of Etta James singing These Foolish Things tickled the air. He rapped lightly on the door.

Em? Dinner’s ready. His voice barely rose above a whisper.

Not hungry. It was hard to tell with a closed door between them, but it sounded as if the words caught in her throat.

Will felt horrible. He pulled in a breath and heaved it out. He raised his hand to knock again and let it drop. Back in the kitchen, he scooped the dinner into a plastic container and snapped on the lid. It would keep for a few days, and Will figured Emma could take it for lunch if she wanted.

With summer slowly creeping in, the days had started to get longer, but night still closed in early under the overcast skies. Will made himself a sandwich and spent the evening on the shoddy old love seat, flipping through channels and hating himself. Random noises arose from their bedroom every now and then: a high note of music, a small thud, the squeaking of bedsprings. Will assumed he would be sleeping on the living room floor that night, but he wouldn’t get any sleep without his pillow. Summoning his courage, he rose from the love seat and crept over to the bedroom.

Em? He rapped lightly on the door.

The bed squeaked, and Emma’s footsteps thumped toward him from the other side. Will instinctively took a step back. Emma yanked open the door and glared at him. Her eyes were glassy and red.

Can I, uh…get my pillow? Will pointed at the bed.

Emma pursed her lips to the right side of her face. I don’t want you sleepin’ on the damn floor out there. It’s ridiculous. She turned and stomped back toward the bed.

Will shuffled into the room as she turned off the stereo and yanked back the covers.

Em, I really am sorry.

She settled into bed and looked up at him. Whatever. Just don’t fucking touch me. Her hand shot up