She continued driving, watching each mile creep across the truck’s dashboard. As she moved closer to her destination, her stomach twisted, her muscles tightened, and her heart raced. When Allison realized she was only a few miles from the man’s farm, a wave of nausea overwhelmed her. She jerked the truck to the side of the road, bringing it to an abrupt stop just in time to sling open her door before the vomit roared from her lips. She shakily wiped her mouth before she rested her head on the steering wheel. What am I going to say? Sorry I killed your kid, my bad? Allison pulled her journal from her pack and read some apologies she had written. They all sounded so scripted, so fake. She turned to a blank page and began writing.
Apology
I am so sorry for the pain I have caused you. I took away the life of your child, which is something I can never make up for. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive . . .
Allison scratched through the words and tried again.
I hurt you in the worst way imaginable. I killed your child. I can never fully understand the pain I caused you. All I can do is take responsibility for my actions and beg for your forgiveness.
Allison compared the apologies and decided the second was the one to go with before tucking her journal back in her pack. She shifted the old truck into gear and headed toward her penance.
Allison pulled up to the driveway of the farm. The entrance had an arch over the driveway with its name on it, Apple Acre Farm. Allison’s heart thumped in her chest. The sound was deafening. The house wasn’t visible from the entrance to the drive. This added to her anxiety. With shaking hands, she pulled out her journal and flipped through it till she found the page where she had written her apology. She read it over and over and over again. The more she read it, the colder it seemed. She threw the journal across the cab of the truck and drove up further into Apple Acre Farm.
A few minutes later Allison pulled up in front of a single story white farmhouse. Laundry was hanging outside, chickens were pecking around the front porch, but not a person was in sight. She turned the truck around so it was facing toward the road in case she needed to make a quick getaway. She reached for the gun case on the passenger-side floor but hesitated. She didn’t want to come across as hostile, so she left it. She knew Sandra would not approve.
She climbed out of the truck, keeping the keys held tightly in her hands, and began walking to the front door of the farmhouse. Before she made it to the porch, a man came out the front door. He was tall and slender, no older than forty. His light brown hair was overdue for a haircut and sprinkled with gray. His overalls were loose-fitting jean material with one strap hanging down his back. His blue shirt was spotted with stains. He had dark brown work boots; the laces were undone like they were put on in haste. The man’s tanned skin was coated in a thick layer of dirt.
“What do you . . . ?” he stopped mid-sentence and stared at Allison, his mouth hanging open in a look of surprise. All the color drained from the man’s face and he was left white as cotton.
“I’m Allison. I need to say . . .” she began, but the man’s loud voice cut through the air, putting a dead stop to her words.
“I know who you are.” He started toward her before he spun back around on his heels, back to his porch. “Never cared to know your name. But I know who you are and what you did.” His voice dripped with disdain. Allison’s heart pounded as if it was going to beat out of her chest. A lump formed in her throat. The man’s body shook and his arm flew out in front of him knocking planters from the porch rail. The pots shattered into tiny pieces across the wood porch, the innards of the plants now helplessly exposed to the elements. “You killed my son. My sweet, innocent boy, my Jake. You ripped his arm from his body like an animal.” Allison’s body quaked, so she wrapped her arms around herself.
“Yes, I did,” she whispered with a quiver in her voice. He began pacing along the porch, running his hands through his hair.
“That is all you have to say? You destroyed everything!” The man began crying but never stopped pacing, his boots crunching across the terracotta shards scattered across the porch.
“I came to say I’m sorry. Mr. Clinton, I’m so sorry for what I did to your son. I’m so very sorry.” Allison’s body shook. “I just wanted you to know that.”
“What good does it do for me to know that? Can you make it so my son is alive again? So my wife is alive again? She killed herself, you know, not even six months after you took our boy. She couldn’t take a world without Jake in it. Shot herself in the same spot you mutilated him in.” The man stopped and stared at Allison. He began swiftly walking toward her. Hate and pain filled his eyes. Allison scurried backward, falling against her truck. Warm tears fell down her face as she slumped down to the ground.
“I’m sorry! I am so sorry! I am sorry, so sorry!
