Everyone knew this had been all she had ever wanted and now she was harboring a secret, her first, and she hated it
July 1998
The old man sported a flannel shirt, a white goatee, and flaming red cheeks that had nothing to do with the events of the day and everything to do with seventy years of hard work and harder drink.
He slammed the door of the dented pickup behind him and began walking, his prominent limp exacerbated by the uneven ground. Four young men scrambled out from the bed of the truck, adjusting their pace so they’d stay a safe distance behind. They followed him as he headed toward a little white church at the far end of an empty country road. For the most part the boys looked down, caps pulled down over their eyes, sweaty hands pushed deep into their pockets, eyes trained on their scuffed Converse sneakers and frayed jeans, the cracked pavement, an ant hill — anywhere but at the man in front of them.
Yos smacked Kivi lightly on the shoulder as the dusty church loomed closer. Kivi looked up at the steeple and gave Yos a shrug. After what he just went through, he’d follow the man anywhere. Off a cliff, straight through the underworld, certainly into a church. Who was he to ask for a religious exemption? I deserve whatever’s coming. He looked down at the cut that ran from his wrist to his thumb, deep and still bleeding. The paramedic had given him some antiseptic cream and a Band-Aid and said it would be fine. Could have been worse, Kivi. Should have been worse.
“Uh, Mr. James?” Yos piped up. “Are we going into the —”
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