Now, both of my eyebrows are raised. I shake my head a fraction of an inch, and his face falls.
“Really? Okay, maybe this will jog your memory.” He backs up about ten feet and walks toward me again, this time with a blank expression on his face and an invisible person on the crook of his arm.
Considering that I just saw a sneak preview of my own death a few minutes ago, I’m not really in the mood for fucking charades, but I decide to throw the guy a bone. Maybe because he’s the only person around here who isn’t acting like a ’roided-out douche bag.
“The bailiff? From the executions?” I tilt my head toward the glowing screen in the corner of the room.
“Ding-ding-ding!” He beams, clapping his hands with every ding. “You probably didn’t recognize me because I’m sooo butch on TV.” The sound of footsteps entering the lobby makes him snap his head toward the back hallway. “Aren’t I, Mac?”
“Aren’t you what?” the gruff, middle-aged guy walking in mutters back. He doesn’t even look at us. His gaze is fixed on the cubicle he’s walking over to, and his shoulders are rounded from carrying the weight of the world on them.
“Aren’t I so butch on TV? Our new suspect—” Elliott turns to me and asks, “What’s your name, handsome?”
“Wesson Parker,” I deadpan.
“Ooh, Wesson. Like the gun? I like that. Very Dirty Harry.”
Elliott turns back to the guy who is now sitting with his back to us at a computer screen. “Wesson here didn’t even recognize me! Can you believe that?”
“Nope,” he mutters. Then, he pulls the trash can out from under his desk and blows a snot rocket into it.
“That’s MacArthur. He’s a sourpuss, but he loves me. Don’t you, Mac?”
“Hmmph,” the old guy grumbles, pecking at his yellowed keyboard with two stiff index fingers.
Just then a dude about as wide as the hallway he’s walking through comes lumbering into the station lobby.
“Oh, thank God! Hoyt! Hoyt, c’mere, sweetie!” Elliott waves at him like a damsel in distress.
About thirty slow-motion strides later, the slack-jawed, sleepy-eyed, shaggy-haired officer makes it over to us. He reminds me of a sheepdog, both in his appearance and general IQ, but sheepdogs probably smell better.
“Hoyt, the chief told me to tell you to process this fine young man as soon as you got back.” Elliott tosses me a wink that goes completely unnoticed by Officer Hoyt.
He simply nods and produces a key ring from his front pocket. Unlocking the metal bracelet attached to the armrest, he gestures for me to stand and secures my wrists behind my back again. Hoyt doesn’t make eye contact once. He simply takes me by the arm and shuffles me over to a cubicle next to MacArthur’s.
After he takes my fingerprints, name, and basic info—with as few words uttered as possible—Officer Hoyt uses a key card to escort me through a security door and into a dimly lit hallway. He stops at a metal cabinet, digs around inside for a minute, and pulls out a cup, a toothbrush, an orange jumpsuit, and a plastic bottle marked De-Licer.
“Sorry, man,” he mumbles, his head hanging even lower than before. “Gotta hose ya down.”
“Better you than the bailiff,” I deadpan.
Officer Hoyt opens the floor-to-ceiling cabinet door a little wider until it blocks the small black video camera attached to the ceiling behind it. Then, for the first time since we met, he lifts his head and looks me dead in the eye. The pity and remorse I see there hit me right in the fucking gut. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a suspect or a convict or “the accused.” He looks at me like I’m a man who just found out that he only has a few days left to live.
“For what it’s worth,” he whispers, blinking his red-rimmed eyes, “I really am sorry.”
I nod and press my lips together to keep my chin from wobbling like a little bitch.
I’m gonna fucking die here, I think as he escorts me to the showers.
“Dead man walkin’.”
May 6
Rain
I couldn’t sleep, so I came out to the front porch to get some fresh air and escape Jimbo’s snoring. He and Mrs. Renshaw dragged their king-size mattress over from next door and flopped it across my parents’ queen-size bedframe last night, and Carter tossed his mattress on the floor in our junk room. Now the whole house smells like smoke.
It smells like their house.
Because it is their house now.
The morning fog has settled in Old Man Crocker’s field across the street. It looks like a fallen cloud being pierced by orange and pink lasers as the sun rises behind the pine trees.
And that’s when I realize … I’m outside.
I haven’t been able to come outside without having a panic attack in weeks, but here I am. Not panicking.
Probably because there’s nothing left to fear.
I step off the porch and walk down the stairs where Wes and I sat just yesterday afternoon.
My feet carry me past my daddy’s rusted old truck—the one that Wes siphoned all the gas out of the day we met—and they don’t stop.
They take me down to the end of the driveway, where about six envelopes are scattered on the gravel. I pick them up one by one.
Franklin Springs Electric.
Franklin Springs Natural Gas.
Franklin Springs Water and Sewer.
First Bank of Georgia.
They’re all addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Williams.
I run my fingertips over their names, but I feel nothing. Just the slick surface of the clear plastic film covering them. Then, I fold the stack of unpaid bills in half and tuck it into my hoodie pocket.
I pick my fallen mailbox up next. The wooden post is broken off at the ground level, so I shove what’s left of it into the soft Georgia clay next to the driveway. It only sticks about two feet above the ground now, but I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything anymore.
“Welcome to
