Chapter Text
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“EVERGREEN!” the boy screamed as he blared past the faded-green-haired girl in his Hotrod Red F-150. The wind displaced by the speeding truck ruffled the girl in almost every manner as she biked down the side of NH-16—what she believed to be the logging road turned two-lane highway. Her baggy, black hoodie sagged past her waist to just above her knees and billowed outwards as the wind caught it. Her once-blue dyed hair had dulled into a sickly mottled mix of green, teal, and cyan hues. Her beat-up, bark-brown Ross 3-speed, which she’d pulled from a local lake, shuddered as the displaced wind hit it, but the girl continued on her trek along the highway.
She knew the boy’s name was Craig—they had grown up together in Boston, Massachusetts. He had been sweet on her until her parents both killed themselves with their sorrows, and she ended up moving “two hours and three minutes” away—which, to a child’s mind in a pre-internet world, was as good as worlds away. Craig had moved to his real parents’ home after ten more years of living with his aunt, but the older child had grown into a very different teenager than she expected. When they finally met again, timid Samantha was greeted by a bulky, muscular boy who had long since ditched his square-rimmed glasses in favor of protein shakes, contact lenses, and underage drinking.
Sam tugged at her hair as she pedaled and thought, He’s right—it’s time to re-dye my hair, as she passed the dark green building where her grandfather worked—a military surplus store lovingly named “GI Joe’s.”
“Evergreen” was the childish nickname Craig had given Sam ever since she started dyeing her blonde hair blue. Her naturally light hair was supposed to take the color easily, the stylist had said, but usually after a week without a touch-up, the dye faded into a gross teal-green. Even that was better than its baseline—a muted light blonde.
She continued pedaling up the hill toward the trailer farm. Each year it grew larger but somehow emptier. People moved in and lived there for a few years before something happened and they suddenly left. The tract homes would sit, rotting without their inhabitants—slowly decomposing into decayed furniture, strewn trash, and roofs collapsing inward.
Her living conditions didn’t help with the bullying. It was often fuel for others, like Craig, who were usually also friends with him—and she used to think he even encouraged it. She saw him talking to them as they pointed and snickered, yelling things like “You smell like dry leaves” or “dirt and old people.” She didn’t know if they were right. She liked her perfume—it was one of the few expensive things her grandmother allowed her to buy from Lush.
She pulled her bike into the open shed, threw a tarp over it, and checked the mouse nest in the corner, which she had discovered a few days ago while looking for something to do. The babies inside were still pink and soft-looking, with little fur and a lifetime ahead of them.
Heading through the screen door, Sam put her backpack down on the floor and hummed as her dirt-dusted boots squeaked across the surface. She quickly picked up the mop and water bucket, wringing the mop and dumping the water. She looked around again before shutting off the oven and grabbing her grandmother’s pill case from the counter. She shook the container to release the leftover scopolamine, Aricept, and extra-strength Advil.
“Nona?” she called out before finding her sleeping on the couch, her chest rising and falling with each subtle breath of life. Sam placed the pills on the coffee table and set the pill container on the mantle before heading further into the thin building to plop onto her bed. As she did so, multiple stuffed animals fell to the ground.
Her grandfather had almost exclusively shown his love for her through the stuffed animals that kept appearing on her bed—sometimes once a month, but after she broke her arm a year ago, it had reached a peak of daily appearances. The stuffed animals were one of her few comforts—they were soft and cool to the touch, except one.
A weird cow—err, bunny? Or was it supposed to be a deer? She wasn’t sure.
It had always been warm to the touch, its foam-filled antlers a little too hard for her taste with their symmetrical dual-prong design, each ending in three nubbed, flat clusters. It had a Holstein cow’s head, rabbit ears twice as long as the plush itself, and a spotted, gangly, floppy body with what felt like hard foam rods placed throughout for rigidity. She called him Mr. Story because of the book he came with when she was little. Luckily, she had been able to reattach his button eyes multiple times since she first got him. She remembered that as she drifted off to sleep atop her throne of plush bodies.
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A door slams. A final sound, sharp and absolute. Someone walks away, and I never see them again.
A wedding—gaudy, grotesque. My mother is in a dress that shimmers too brightly, clinging awkwardly to her frame. My new father is in an ill-fitting tuxedo, the collar too tight, the sleeves too short. I’m wearing a red, flowery dress. The fabric scratches at the back of my neck, digging in like tiny needles. It hurts. I shift, but it doesn’t stop.
Mimi and Mom are fighting. Screaming. I don’t know why. Then Mimi is gone. I don’t see Mimi Lawson anymore.
Mom starts drinking from bottles that catch the light in pretty ways. The next morning, they’re scattered across the floor, glinting like tiny stars. She’s lying beside them. Again.
Pain. A deep, aching pain in the back of my head. The sharp sting of glass slicing skin as I pick up the broken pieces. Blood smears across my fingers.
Dad is angry. Mom is angry. At him. At me. At everything.
Dad takes my hand. “We’re going somewhere,” he says.
A train station. The air hums with noise—too many voices, too many footsteps, too much motion. The trains scream as they pull in and out, their brakes shrieking against metal tracks. People push past, brushing against my shoulders. I don’t like it. It’s too much.
Dad is walking forward. The train isn’t here yet.
Someone holds me back. A firm grip on my wrist. I don’t know who.
My fingers slip from his.
The train arrives. A rush of air, the deafening roar of machinery.
Loud. Too loud.
Screaming.
Dad’s head stares up at me from between the train and the platform. His face is twisted, frozen in anger. He’s missing an eye. His fingers stretch toward me, closing the space between us.
He’s gurgling something. I can’t understand.
Black goop seeps from the train. From the tracks. From the lights overhead. It drips, slides, spreads. His outstretched hand vanishes into the gap.
The black sludge reaches me. It burns. My arms, my feet, my hands, my eyes.
A woman in white. She stands just beyond the chaos. Her lips barely move, but I hear her.
RUN.
Red and blue lights flash—pulsing, urgent. A man stops me. A nice man, maybe. His face is sad.
“Where are your parents?”
I don’t know.
“Where are you going?”
I don’t know.
“Why are you covered in that?”
I don’t know.
“Can I see your backpack?”
I don’t answer.
“We’ll get you home, Sammy.”
I don’t like that name.
Orange lights flicker behind smoke-blackened windows. More red. More blue.
What floor do I live on?
What happened?
It’s heavy. My chest. My lungs. The air.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I CAN’T BREATHE.
I CAN’T BREATHE.
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Sam awoke with a startled gasp. She looked around, cold sweat dripping from her as she expected her childhood room—but saw otherwise. She looked down to see what was causing the heaviness in her chest. Staring back at her were two sets of eyes: one, the glassy beady stare of her friend Mr. Story, and the other, the old eyes of her Nona’s elderly Labrador, Mr. Simone, who was laying across her chest and panting heavily. He was heavy despite his wiry frame and rickety bones.
She glanced at the clock: 3:45 a.m. She got enough sleep, she thought, trying to turn over and escape the dog’s crushing weight. After a few minutes of struggling, she succeeded. She hummed as she stretched and ruffled her hair to keep it from tangling, then headed toward the shower.
Wash. Shampoo. Rinse. Conditioner. Rinse again. Shampoo again. Get out and sprint across the hall to her room. Perfume. Spend exactly 15 minutes picking out what to wear for the day, despite the reality that she would just wear her teal hoodie over it all.
Finally, breakfast. Bowl. Cereal. Milk. Eat.
Sometimes, if she were still hungry, she would track down one of the local diners on her ride and see if they had any day-old bagels. Then she would pet Mr. Simone for exactly ten minutes before packing her bag with water, a snack—usually granola or granola-adjacent—and deciding where she would go for the day, locking the door on the way out.
It was a dark and cold July morning—the kind only the White Mountains that overshadowed her town could provide. She looked at the sky, just beginning to dawn its pinks and blues, before slowly moving toward the shed with her hand resting on the canister of bear mace her grandfather clipped to each pair of her jeans after they were washed. He could handle her not wanting to go to school and preferring to go to the library. He could handle her leaving early and coming back late. But he would not allow her to go “unequipped,” as he would say.
She turned back toward the house, looking at the few steps she’d already taken. Was Grandpa awake? Was Grandma? If she went back inside, she wouldn’t be able to leave again. She remembered her father’s words from when she was young: “Once you set out on an adventure, you need to set yourself a goal. You can only come back once you complete that goal, and once you come home, you can’t leave until you know your next adventure.”
She said the words aloud, parroting her deceased father. Sam looked around tentatively and fidgeted with the mace on her belt loop. She’d be fine if it was a cougar or black bear. But did it work on the weirdos who were out at this hour?
She nodded to herself as she grabbed her bike from the shed and set off toward her favorite diner. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew that if she could help Mrs. Abernathy before the place opened for the morning tide of hungover truckers and bleary-eyed campers, she could earn some pocket change for the day.
Peaches and Creamer
Fresh Muffins and Baked Goods available at 6:30 a.m. every day.
Whether you want breakfast, lunch, or just some locally roasted coffee—that’s fine too.
Mrs. Abernathy ran a tight ship—just her, her two daughters, and the occasional dishwasher. If it weren’t for the fact that she used to be close friends with Sam’s father, Sam would likely have never been let behind the counter, let alone into the kitchen itself.
But there she sat, kneading dough with gloved hands and her short green hair pulled back under a hairnet. She liked the movement and the feeling of the dough as it stuck to her hands. It was—and wasn’t—a game to Sam. The practice of it felt like a game: count the number of times you knead and fold, separately, to avoid tough bread.
Still, she knew she couldn’t goof off or mess around if she didn’t want to upset Mrs. Abernathy—or if she wanted to keep the opportunity to work under the table. So she counted and kneaded, folded and counted, before placing dough in a loaf pan or passing it to Jahnna to be brushed down with cinnamon paste for cinnamon rolls.
And when Sam woke up too early, this was how she spent her time: helping Mrs. Abernathy and making sure her daughters got to school on time. Mrs. Abernathy never questioned why Sam didn’t seem rushed, or why she lingered after opening hours to enjoy the goods she helped make.
The two had an understanding. Don’t ask why Sam’s not going to school, and she won’t ask questions that dig up bad memories, no matter how unassuming they seem.
Mrs. Abernathy observed the small girl while thawing the meats to be used that morning. She was busy doing other things, of course, but she never found her eyes lingering on Sam for more than ten minutes at a time. The girl was almost baffling to her—so much like her father in the face, yet wholly strange elsewhere.
When Sam first came back, she had long, blonde, bouncy hair and a very boyish frame. But in the ten years since, she had changed more than she likely realized.
Mrs. Abernathy absentmindedly moved to the griddle and turned it on to prep it for the day, continuing to keep Sam in her periphery.
Sam wiped her brow as she finished her allotted dough and stood up. She glanced at the clock and counted internally, figuring she’d earned about fourteen dollars if Mrs. Abernathy was going to pay her the usual amount for two hours of work.
She hung up her apron and pulled her hands free from the food-safe gloves before tossing them into the trash. Finally, as she headed toward the dining area, she pulled the hairnet free and bunched it up in one hand before calling out:
“Ma’am, I’m done with the dough.”
Only then did she finally take note of her surroundings.
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Grey. That was the first word that came to mind. Grey and dark.
“Hello? Mrs. Abernathy?” Sam called out as she walked to the middle of the dining area. Looking up at the lights, she saw that they were on—but their now cracked nature made their effect minimal on the monotonous grey space.
She winced as, all at once, it sounded like she was in a busy store: a sudden explosion of sound that equally startled and upset her. The smell made her gag—a damp mildew scent mixed with some sort of sharp, acrid odor that almost smelled like ammonia, harshly burning her nose. She pulled her sweatshirt up over her face and took a few hesitant steps deeper into the dark diner. Molding dishes littered the tables, and thick dark sludge stained the booths, causing Sam to recoil as she passed.
It felt familiar somehow—this smell, the appearance of the place—but she couldn’t, for the life of her, place why.
SLAM. CLATTER. SLAM.
A thunderous racket echoed from the kitchen, causing Sam to spin on her heels. The sound of baking pans being thrown from the counter onto the floor, she thought, frozen in place, staring toward the pair of swinging doors that separated the diner from the kitchen—and her from whatever that was.
Fear.
Fear coursed through her chest as she breathed a shaky sigh in a futile attempt to steady herself. But as she did, another clamor began—something haphazardly moving toward the swinging doors. She shot an uneasy glance toward the main entrance, trying to gauge which was closer. Then a stomp, heavy and wet, from just beyond the kitchen doors sent her scrambling under the nearest table. She squeezed her eyes shut as dripping footsteps grew louder… and closer.
And with one blink—
Suddenly, she was wedged between three sets of legs, and the dreary diner had been replaced by its rightful counterpart. The smell of coffee, breakfast, and cinnamon buns hit her like a truck, knocking the breath from her lungs with the sheer onslaught of pleasant sensation. Her mind reeled as she tried to wriggle free from the leg-based trap, drawing shouts of:
“Woah!”
“What the hell?!”
“Damnit Jimmy, stop playing footsie!”
Once she freed herself, she turned to face the grizzled truckers and muttered, “I dropped my—”
She faltered for a moment before stammering, “Wallet.”
The men looked puzzled. The other diners who’d been paying attention to the commotion seemed puzzled. But worst of all—
“Mrs. Abernathy looks upset,” Sam thought aloud, as Mrs. Abernathy emerged from the kitchen to investigate all the hubbub.
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“Where were you?”
Mrs. Abernathy questioned Sam as she sat on a stool in the diner's kitchen prep area, the same spot where she had been kneading dough not long ago.
“Last I saw you, you were working the last of the dough—and then I turned around and you were just gone! Only to reappear under a table four hours later! Girl, I called your grandfather—I was so worried. He told me not to stress too much since you don’t usually stray far until a job is done, but…”
Mrs. Abernathy rested a hand on Samantha’s shoulder. The girl recoiled slightly. Physical touch had never really been Sam’s thing—especially not from family or family friends.
“I was this close—” she held her fingers an inch apart, “—to calling the cops and having them search for you.”
Sam shuddered at the thought of the local police force being called on her.
“I’m sorry! Mrs. Abernathy. It won’t happen again.”
The older woman looked her over cautiously.
“Where did you go?” she asked, her voice suddenly too polite.
“I—” Sam began, then cut herself off. What even was that? Was I dreaming? Did I get narco-whatever and sleepwalk under a table?
“I’m not sure,” she said finally.
It wasn’t a lie, per se, but it wasn’t the full explanation either.
“Well, girl, I think you might want to talk to a guidance counselor. Maybe see someone about that.”
The woman turned and motioned to the slowly growing pile of orders on the ticket rail.
“I need to get back to cookin’. Ask Grace for your normal pay and tell her I gave the okay to pull it from the register.”
She paused, then added, “Be safe, Sam. And go wash up—you smell something dank.”
That last remark filled Sam’s chest with embarrassment. She pulled her hoodie up to her nose and sniffed, only to catch the lingering scent of mildew and ammonia.
Grace was the antithesis of Samantha in almost every way. She was tall, tanned, stylish—and by many accounts (including Sam’s), a total babe. Her ruby-red hair and almost reddish-hazel eyes captivated just about anyone whose attention she caught.
“Hi Grace, Mrs. Abernathy told me to ask you for my normal pay. She said it’s okay to pull it from the register.”
Sam was slightly out of breath as the older girl stared back at her with the one visible eye not obscured by her swooping bangs. Grace had just finished taking a trucker’s order.
“Uh-huh,” she said, her accent dripping with the mellow drawl of Virginia-Tennessee. She finished jotting the order, then let the notebook dangle loosely by her side.
“‘Kay. I’ll be on that once I put in this order. You buyin’ anything before you go?”
Sam shook her head no.
“‘Kay.”
She followed Grace as she moved from table to table, checking on her customers before finally heading to the register. Grace slid the paper tickets onto the gondola and entered the totals into her till. Then she turned back to Sam.
“Fourteen dollars, right? And you’re not gettin’ anything?”
Sam nodded.
“No school today?” she asked—less like a question, more like a gentle request for information.
“Vo-tech program,” came Grace’s quick, curt reply.
“I thought that was for, like, electricians or mechanics,” Sam responded, eyebrow raised as Grace handed her the fourteen dollars.
“Bakers too,” she added.
Sam hummed in acknowledgment, pocketing the money and flashing Grace a smile and peace sign combo.
“Get goin’, goofball. I’ve got work to do,” Grace replied, waving her off.
The midday sun beat down as Sam pedaled along the road toward the library. She still had about three hours before Quinn got out of school and they could hang out.
Quinn was a senior and probably the only person Sam knowingly got along with from her school. Because of the age gap, Sam looked up to Quinn in more ways than one. Despite their shared plight—bullying being the main culprit—Quinn remained a constant in Sam’s life. One of the many things Sam had picked up from her was a love for hair dye. Whenever Quinn did hers, she’d often call Sam over to help touch up or reapply the color. Sam had never taken Quinn up on her offer to go full black, though—it had been four years since Quinn's dad moved in next door, and Sam’s hair had been dull green ever since.
As she pedaled, Sam reminisced, closing her eyes for a moment and letting the wind carry her—
BEEEP.
The truck horn shattered her daydream. She jerked the handlebars toward the shoulder and gasped as the truck whooshed past, narrowly missing her. Heart pounding, she adjusted her headphones, leaving one ear free as she kept pedaling her broken-down bike toward the library.
Passing through the stretch between towns, she breathed in deeply, inhaling as much pine-scented mountain air as she could.
Despite everything… at least I’m somewhere beautiful, she thought, coasting over the bridge.
She rounded the corner with her bike in tow. The massive double glass doors hissed open in response to her approach, blasting her with lifesaving cold air. Late summer clung to her like a wet towel, but inside the library was bliss. She locked her bike at the provided rack, removed the small key, and approached the front desk.
No Dave, she realized. The usual friendly, portly older man who helped her pick fantasy books was gone. Instead: Gus. Stringy, younger—and someone she couldn’t quite place why she didn’t like.
He stood too close. He stared too long. There was something in the way he looked at her that made her skin prickle.
She handed over the key and received a small plastic tag, which she pocketed before turning—only to freeze.
Craig.
Shit.
Nose-deep in a local history book, groaning in frustration.
Maybe he hasn’t seen—shit.
Their eyes locked. He wore the look of someone too dumb to know how to feel—pleased, upset, and amused all at once.
Sam moved through the stacks as quickly as she could, eyes peeled for both Stephen King and her bully. After snatching her current book (the one she’d been metaphorically chewing on for days), she doubled back to try and spot Craig. But as she peeked through the autobiography section, she couldn’t see him.
What she could see, however, was a new book from her favorite author:
Brisingr.
She could barely restrain the goofy grin spreading across her face, her uneven canine tooth making it slightly lopsided. She turned the book over in her hands—the Borders price tag still beneath the library's barcode—and thumbed the ridge absently as she began looking for a seat.
Three laps later (still no sign of Craig), she settled into a beanbag in the far northeastern corner—as far from the front doors as possible.
But just as she sank into the cushion, she caught a glimpse of someone:
A girl with stark, almost electric blue hair.
Sam felt a twinge of envy and reached for her own dull green strands.
When’s Quinn going to re-dye my hair? she wondered.
She glanced at the clock.
Two and a half more hours ‘til school ends, she thought, turning her attention to the new book that had just graced her lap.
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The hours passed quickly and before she knew it Sam had 15 minutes to bike the quarter mile to their school to meet up with Quinn. She checked out the new copy of Brisingr and turned in her tag to retrieve the key to the lock that currently cared for her bike. With a quick push off, she rolled toward the automatic doors, which hissed open to blast her—not with cool air this time—but with the balmy 70-degree air of late spring.
As she maneuvered her bike toward the school, her borrowed copy of Brisingr shifted in her hoodie pocket with each rotation of the pedal, sending it from one side of her hoodie's center pocket to the other, its escape threats barely contained by the welt of its captor. Every so often, Samantha pushed on it to move it back to the middle as she took both hands off the handlebars. As she turned into the school’s parking lot, she passed by a bus almost filled to the brim. It would bring its passengers to the neighboring town to the west that didn’t have a high school. She glanced at them, checking for anyone she’d recognize—or any who would recognize her—but sighed in relief when she saw neither.
With one last pedal, she pulled one leg up and over her rear wheel and, with relative ease, rode the last few feet through the parking lot standing alongside her bike atop her left pedal before hopping down and walking the last few yards through the school’s sidewalk, which was beginning to fill with students beginning their own trek home.
She saw Quinn long before Quinn saw her. The tall girl was easy to spot with her dyed black hair, which sported a few teal stripes. Her baggy long-sleeve shirt, black sleeveless hoodie, and blue jeans left little doubt about which group of kids she hung around with. Her bookbag sagged under the weight of her schoolwork. Samantha waited for a few minutes before calling out to Quinn, wondering if the older girl would notice her in the crowd. Unfortunately for Sam, being one of the shorter freshmen didn’t give her much of an advantage when it came to being noticed.
“Quinn!” she called out. Getting no response, she tried again, this time a few steps closer and out of the majority of the crowd. “Quinn!”
This time, the girl turned. “Hey! Sorry, I didn't see you before.”
Samantha nodded, briefly looking around at the juniors Quinn was surrounded by before shrugging. “That tracks.”
Quinn turned toward Sam and motioned for them to begin their walk home.
“And then Greg was laughing so hard that his dumbass fell backward off the lunch table and almost knocked himself out!” Quinn laughed as she recalled the day’s events.
“Pfft,” Sam stifled a laugh as she walked her bike alongside Quinn.
As they walked, the two were occasionally on guard. Some local kids liked to throw bottles or other objects at them. ‘Easy targets,’ Samantha thought. The least-liked freshman and the least-liked senior walking together certainly made them obvious marks. ‘Two birds, one stone,’ and ‘two-for-one special’ were other thoughts that floated through her head.
As a familiar truck blared past on its way to football practice, an open 16oz Mountain Dew came hurtling toward them.
“Eaugh!” Sam croaked as the bottle flew overhead, spraying its contents over both her and Quinn.
“God damnit!” Quinn roared as she flipped off the truck now accelerating away. “Fucking damnit, I just washed this outfit!”
She fumbled through her sagging bookbag, hoping to find either useless homework or one of the paper towel stashes she kept there. Samantha, meanwhile, stripped off her hoodie, the only casualty in the drive-by soda bath. While annoyed at the extra laundry, she was glad her nona had stocked up on replacements during a fall/winter rollback.
As they walked and while Quinn preoccupied herself with her damp hoodie, Sam’s thoughts drifted back to how she and the pickup’s owner reconnected—and where it all began.
It was the summer after her first year of middle school when she toured schools offering special programs for her conditions. She hated the way adults talked about her issues—like they were insults, or worse, pitying them with phrases like “she’s suffering from—.”
‘I don't suffer from them,’ she thought. ‘I just have them.’
During the Mountain Ridge High School tour—coinciding with their summer football league—she noticed the name McNalago on a bench player’s jersey. Craig. Her childhood best friend.
She snuck away from a boring speech and crept beneath the bleachers toward the field where Craig sat. She didn't want the coach—a tall, greasy man with unsettling eyes—or any players to see her.
“Hello? Uh, what's your name?” she asked from beneath the bleachers, inches from Craig.
“HUH!?” Craig yelped, reeling backward. “Who the f is under there?”
Samantha grimaced at the faux-cuss. “I'm wondering if you’re someone I know. I’m…” She hesitated. Would he recognize her name? Or the nickname?
“Sammie,” she finally offered.
There was a pause. Then his upside-down face peered through the bleachers. “Sammie as in Samantha Gray?”
She nodded.
“Holy bajeezus! Sammie, is that really you? When did you get here? Where’ve you been? Did my Ma tell you where to find me?”
The flood of questions overwhelmed her, but she answered as best she could: “Yep. Like, forever ago. At my Nona’s. No.”
She wanted to hug him. It had been forever since she abruptly left Boston after…
“Are you gonna be coming here for high school?” he asked, snapping her out of the thought spiral.
“Uh, I might. Nona had me visit two other schools today—one’s an hour bus ride each way.”
“Oh, that’s…” He trailed off. “Sucks,” he finally offered.
She nodded. “Wouldn’t be that bad. Better than going to a school without the, uh…” She paused. It was hard to bring up the real reason—bullying—without inviting pity.
“… amenities,” she finished.
Craig looked confused but nodded. “Oh yeah, I guess we do have a lot of stuff for track and field.”
“Yeah, that’s one of the things swaying me toward this one,” she said.
“Well hey, here’s my MySpace,” he said, scribbling his handle into a playbook and handing it to her.
“MySpace?” she echoed, confused. Living in the trailer park on two retirement incomes didn’t keep her up-to-date on tech or trends.
“It’s a Netspace where you make a profile and talk to friends—” he rambled, stopping mid-sentence. “You can talk to friends on it.”
Samantha tilted her head. He was acting weird. Adjusting his posture, his voice, everything.
The screech of tires pulled her out of the memory. She felt herself yanked backward by her collar.
“Sam! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Quinn snapped, cradling her freshman friend after pulling her out of the path of an oncoming semi.
“S-sorry!” Sam stammered, her heart pounding like a death metal drumline. She could feel Quinn’s heartbeat too—being held this close. She tried to pull away but was powerless against someone almost twice her size. Eventually, she relaxed and looked around for her bike, which, thankfully, was unharmed.
After a few moments, Quinn let her go. “Jesus, Sam. I thought you were gonna get killed. I don't think that trucker saw you.” She looked south, too late to catch the plate number.
“I’m fine, Quinn,” Samantha mumbled. “But thanks for the save.”
“?” Quinn looked confused.
“Quick save? I only caught you when you fell backward.”
“Either way, thanks,” Sam shrugged. “Want to go to the river? I feel like swimming.”
Quinn burst out laughing. “First you get splashed by soda, then you zone out and almost get hit by a semi. Now you want to go swimming. Will we ever get home?”
Samantha simply shrugged. Summer was coming, which meant more freedom, later curfews, and AC at home. For Quinn, it meant less relaxation—especially with her junkie dad off work until the junior high and high school summer football seasons started up again.
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After another half mile down the two-lane road their state called a highway, the two found the small fox path they’d used since they first became friends to get to their spot. A short walk through dogwood brush and ducking under low-hanging hemlock limbs led them past a small oak scrap-wood dock used by local kids as a jumping-off point when the river’s higher. It found them at a spot only frequented by the delinquent, the bored, and the lonely—
And today, they were the second rather than the first.
Their spot was an old trestle bridge that used to provide out-of-state trespassers a leisurely glimpse at the mountains, the fields, the lakes—and let’s not forget the roaring rapids that the northern half of the state often sported—through a smeared train car window. But now it was a spot that Quinn, Samantha, and their small group of friends had turned into their own personal hideout. Pallets from the local Walmart, Davey’s carpentry VoTech experience, and a comped box of nails from Greg’s dad’s job was all it took to turn the left side of the first quarter of the bridge into a shaded hangout spot that let them jump into the deepest part of the river accurately.
Samantha’s grandfather’s cooler was hanging off the edge of the bridge by a rope so others wouldn’t be tempted to steal it. As the two of them pulled it up, they found it still stocked with dollar-store-brand Shasta Cola and Mountain Brew.
“Which would you like?” Samantha asked, holding one of each over her head.
“Uh, is there any Dr. Hott in there?” Quinn asked. She was the only one to drink it, and based on her count from the weekend, there should be at least two left in the watery grave of the cooler.
Samantha looked down and began bobbing sodas around in the still slightly chilled water until, under a now-empty plastic bag that had held their ice, she found a single Dr. Hott. With a smile, she dropped the Mountain Brew back into the cooler and grabbed her friend her Dr. Hott. With the other hand, she closed the cooler before pushing it into the shade.
“Heads up!” Samantha shouted as she went to toss the can over her head toward her friend.
“Samantha!” Quinn scolded. “Don’t throw the sodas! If you miss, it’s a waste of money!”
Sam nodded, stood up in one motion, and walked over to Quinn with a bounce in each step before passing the can over. After that, she moved to the edge of the bridge before carefully sitting down.
Quinn watched Samantha’s movements as she sat beside her on the edge. There was so much she couldn’t say to her—so much of it she wanted to, but her lack of courage kept it at bay. What would she say? What would she do? Would she leave her? Quinn sighed and slumped backward onto the dry, hard surface of the bridge’s wood beam floor.
Samantha turned to look at her with those big, goofy eyes and that cute, uneven smile caused by her off-track tooth. Her pine green hair was blowing softly in the wind, and Quinn occasionally caught the woodsy scent Samantha was always wrapped in. Was it cypress? It was almost like sniffing a handful of moss after a brief rain shower. But rather than broach a hard topic, she just closed her eyes and breathed until the thoughts went away.
Three hours passed peacefully before either of them noticed the setting sun, which spurred them both into motion: lower the cooler back down, pull the rope swing back up, and make the five-minute walk through the already dark woodland—all the while vigilant for mountain lions or bears, or God forbid: a cow moose. Then the rest of the way into town, watching for cars pulling into the breakdown lane, where they finally parted at CVS. Quinn broke away from Sam to pick up her meds for the week, leaving Samantha to continue up the road toward her own home.
The road was quiet and empty as Samantha biked the last couple blocks to where her home was: Shady Maple Trailer Park. It was still the same as she left it sixteen hours ago—still decaying around its residents, still providing respite for some, still supposedly the way it had been in the eighties.
As she turned through the roundabout in the middle of the trailer farm, she stuck her left leg out and let it knock into a few of the pink plastic lawn flamingos that the kids of the park had decorated. After one older woman passed away, her family decided it better to leave the trailer to rot in place—like many of the other decrepit piles of scrap that littered the four-acre homage to rural poverty.
At least, that’s what Sam thought of it.
As she continued to pedal, she screwed up her nose while passing the dumpster lot. The whole trailer park had the vague hint of moldering trash, but this area was the worst—and the only place she could remember ever seeing a bear. As she took a hard right turn, she almost hit a parked car that had been left since Mr. Alegeros went to the hospital and never came back. If she remembered right, he was having breathing difficulties—and that was three years ago.
But he’d left the car to Ms. Smithson before he left, saying she could use it while he was gone, since she had no other way to get her twins to daycare and herself to work after her husband left. Changing course, Samantha rode over the Smithson twins’ ramp they had positioned on the sidewalk to do “tricks.” As she left the ground, she snickered before gravity brought her back down.
It was pretty fun, she thought.
Taking the next left put her onto her “road.” The trailer farm was, by the county’s discretion, a one-address locale, which often made it difficult to get mail reliably. Each lot was numbered, but due to some of the old mobile homes being on the “old lots,” some homes were marked with letters while others with numbers—and still others a combination of the two.
So, when she got closer to the edge of the lot and saw Mr. Killsberi standing at her mailbox putting a small package inside, she knew their mail had likely gotten mixed up again. “B” and “B26,” while on opposite sides of the trailer park, often had mail delivered to the wrong address.
With a smile and a wave, she greeted her old friend. Ever since she came to this place, Mr. Killsberi had been one of the few adults she’d gotten close to who wasn’t family. Whenever she or her grandma needed something and Grampa couldn’t get it—or couldn’t get it yet—he would step in and offer help. When she was first learning her way around the area, it was Mr. Killsberi who told her about the old trestle bridge and the route to get there.
And it was Mr. Killsberi who gave her a birthday cake every year.
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She pulled her bike into the shed. She heard the soft skittering of claws on top of the old generator reservoir, which immediately sent a wave of guilt over her—her return must have spooked Mother Mouse. Taking the chance while she was gone, Samantha stood on the tips of her toes to look over the generator and spotted the wiggling pink beans that were Mother Mouse’s babies. She smiled when she saw them and pulled out the beaten-up crumb of a bagel she’d been saving since that morning, placing it near the nest.
She then dropped back onto her heels and ducked under the low-hanging doorframe before looking toward the driveway and heading to get the mail. As she was on her way back, Sam looked to the driveway and realized—Grandfather was already home? He should still be at G.I. Joe’s for another couple of hours.
She paced the length of the driveway up to the house and reached to open the back door—
Clank. Locked?
Why’s the door locked? It shouldn’t be locked. Grandpa leaves the door unlocked when he leaves for work, and she had left before him today.
She grabbed her keys off her belt loop and reached up to unlock the door.
Why was her heart beating so fast?
Why was her chest so tight?
Click. The deadbolt unlocked. Next, the door lock.
Why—why was her heart throbbing in her ears?
Click. A turn and a push.
That’s why.
Samantha puked when she saw him on the floor, rust pooling around his head and splashed on the corner of the hardwood dining table they used to sit at. She gasped for air.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She rushed to his side and pushed on him.
Cold. He was cold.
She pushed off the floor and sat against the kitchen sink, curled in on herself.
She couldn’t even cry. Why couldn’t she cry?
She just sat with her head against her knees.
After what felt like hours, she looked up. “Nona?” No response.
Where was Nona?
“Nona?” she called again before advancing toward the living room.
Her grandmother was passed out on the couch. “Thank God,” she breathed out, holding her hand over her grandmother’s mouth and feeling her faint breath.
She looked back toward the kitchen—specifically, the house phone.
“911, what’s the nature of your emergency?” The operator’s voice was soft, smooth, and almost calming.
“I, uh—I think my grandpa fell. He’s not breathing and cold to the touch.” Her heartbeat was in her stomach. She struggled through her words, her thoughts flying a mile a minute. Do you even call the emergency line if someone’s already dead? Do you call non-emergency? What was that number again?
“Stay on the line with me. I need you to check for a pulse first. Place two fingers on his neck, below his jawline. Can you do that?” That soothing voice again.
She moved back to his side, followed the operator’s instructions, and waited. She could barely breathe. Why was she struggling to breathe?
“Good girl, stay right there. What did you feel? Is his chest rising and falling?” The operator’s voice was steady, trying to offer comfort and guidance. The distant sound of sirens echoed through the neighborhood. “Thank you for staying on the line and helping us try to save your grandpa. The paramedics should be there soon.”
Samantha watched them take out the cold, lifeless body of her grandfather on a stretcher with a sheet draped over him. They seemed apologetic.
She didn’t get it. Why were they apologizing to her?
They checked on Nona too, said that she wasn’t doing well and that she should call someone to help take care of her.
That was Grandpa’s thing.
How was she supposed to tell them they didn’t have anyone else?
Her daughter had been dead for seven years.
Her son-in-law had been dead for the same amount of time.
Her other daughter…
Samantha tried to think as she watched the ambulance pull away from the house, taking half of her life with it.
Regina. Regina Gray. Had Samantha ever actually met someone with that name? Had she ever met her aunt? How do you get the number of someone you’ve never met? How do you convince them to drop their life to take care of another’s?
She sighed as the headlights of the ambulance slowly faded, and she made her way toward the shower. By the time she was done, she was struggling to even hold herself up. Without saying goodnight, she slunk to bed—wet, tired, and filled with overwhelming, raw emotions she couldn’t hope to articulate.
She lay awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, her damp hair soaking into the pillow. Everything felt surreal, like it had happened in a dream she couldn’t wake up from. She turned over and buried her face in the covers, trying to block out the silence. But it pressed in on her, heavy and total. She wanted to scream, but the sound caught in her throat. Her whole body shook—not from cold, but from the aftershock of grief and fear. Every time she blinked, she saw him again. The blood. The way his arm had folded under him. The stillness.
She clutched the blanket to her chest and curled tighter. For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of her breathing and the faint creak of the old tract-home settling.
Eventually, she slept. But it was the kind of sleep that doesn't bring rest. Just a dark, drifting fog where time slips and thoughts fester.