idea of you going away and leaving me stuck here.”
“So you decided to do it to me first? You ran off and joined the army and I’m the one who got left behind instead.”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen. You wanted to be a veterinarian. You were supposed to be going to Morgantown in the fall.”
“And I was, until you left. And then, instead of college, I got months of therapy and shrinks and drugs. I got Prozac instead of a degree.”
“I didn’t mean for you to—”
“To try to kill myself? You can’t even say it, can you?”
His silence was answer enough.
“Well, that’s what happened, Donny. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not. I tried to kill myself.”
“And I’ve told you before that I’m sorry about that, Marsha.” He raised his head and met her eyes. “You don’t know how sorry I am. I loved you.”
“I loved you too, asshole. And if you’d really fucking loved me, you’d have said good-bye. That’s the worst part. Remember when we were kids, and you and Ricky Gebhart spent all day one summer gathering garter snakes and putting them in a fivegallon bucket?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“And then you assholes dumped the bucket over my head. I was so mad at you, and you followed me around for the rest of the summer, apologizing every single day. Because you cared. But after all those years growing up together—not to mention that we were supposed to be in love—you didn’t care enough to say good-bye when you left.
“I wrote you letters.”
Marsha paused. “When?”
“Once in boot camp. And a couple of times in Iraq. Once while we were on leave in Kuwait. And I tried calling you from Italy, but I wasn’t used to the time-zone change and it was the middle of the night here. I woke your dad up.”
“He never told me.”
“That’s because he didn’t know it was me. When he answered, I couldn’t say anything, so I just hung up.”
“Bullshit. I don’t believe you. And I definitely never got any letters.”
“That’s because I never mailed them.”
“Why not?”
Donny shook his head. “I don’t . . . It’s hard to explain. I know why, but I don’t know how to put it into words. It . . . things were different over there. I mean, we grew up here, and all we knew was Brinkley Springs. That was our whole world.”
“You make it sound like we never went anywhere else. What about Myrtle Beach and the state fair and that class trip we took to New York City when we were juniors?”
“Yeah, but that’s still America. The world is more than just America. You see that when you get out there. We’re just a small part of things, and Brinkley Springs . . . hell, it ain’t even on the map. All the stuff that happens here, all the trivial bullshit and drama and gossip in people’s lives? That doesn’t mean shit out there.” He swept his hand toward the horizon.
“I don’t understand,” Marsha said. “What does any of this have to do with why you never mailed me the letters?”
Donny took a deep breath and leaned back against the side of his truck. “Like I said, it’s hard to explain. I changed. I saw some shit that . . . well, it wasn’t very pretty. I did things that I ain’t proud of. We all did. It was war, you know? Everything was different, and Brinkley Springs just seemed so far away. It was like you were part of another life. You were somebody that another version of me had known— and that other me was dead. He didn’t exist anymore. He was back here in Brinkley Springs, and that was a million miles away.”
“You could have told me.”
“I tried. I told you in every letter. But I never sent them because I figured you’d already moved on, and I didn’t want to make things worse. I didn’t know about the suicide attempt or any of that. Believe me, if I had, things would be different. I just figured you’d gotten over me and gone to college and met somebody and forgotten all about me. It wasn’t until I came back home, after Mom got sick, that I found out the truth.”
“You must have heard from other people. You must have known.”
Donny shook his head. “Not really. Mom sent me e-mails and letters, but she didn’t tell me what was going on with you. She never even mentioned you. I reckon she thought it would have upset me. And she’d have been right about that. And I never heard from anyone else. The church sent me Christmas cards, but that’s about it.”
“And now you’re leaving again.”
“Yeah.”
Marsha wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara.
Donny reached for her, but she pushed him away.
“Leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage already.”
“Marsha . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you. I loved you. Hell, I still love you.”
“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it! If you love me, then why are you running away again?”
“I’m not running away. It’s just this town. This place. I don’t like it here. I never have. Growing up, I couldn’t wait to leave. The only things that ever tied me to this place were my mom and you. And now Mom is gone.”
“And I’m not enough to keep you here.” Her tone was flat and resigned. “I never was.”
“That’s not true.”
“Of course it is.”
“You could come with me.”
“I told you before, Donny. I can’t do that. My family is here.”
“You were gonna leave them for college.”
“That was then. This is now. They’ve been here for me. You haven’t. I can’t just leave them now.”
“Well,” Donny sighed, “then I guess that’s—”
Somebody screamed, a high, warbling shriek that echoed down the street and was then abruptly terminated. Both Donny and Marsha jumped, startled by the sound. They glanced around, peering into the darkness.
“What was that?” Marsha reached out and clutched his hand, squeezing hard. “
“I don’t know. Stay here.”
Marsha squeezed his hand tighter. “What? Where are you going?”
“To check it out. Somebody is—”
Another scream ripped through the night. This one came from a different direction. It was joined seconds later by more shrieks. A dog yelped in pain or fright. Then the streets fell silent again. Donny was reminded of the uncanny quiet that often followed a firefight.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “What the hell is going on? The power, the dogs and now this . . .”
“I’ll call 911.” Marsha pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, flipped it open and then frowned. “My battery can’t be dead. I just recharged it.”
Donny reached for his and shook his head. “Mine’s dead, too.”
“What would make that happen? The lights are out, but what would kill our cell phones?”
“An EMP.”
“What’s that?”
“Electromagnetic pulse. I mean, the cell-phone towers could be down, but even then, the phones would still have power. Only thing I know of that would knock them out completely is an EMP. But that’s—”
A woman’s voice interrupted, hollering for someone named Brandon. She sounded distraught and panicked.
“That’s Mrs. Lange,” Marsha whimpered. “Brandon is her little boy.”
She raised one trembling hand and pointed at their house. Donny glanced in that direction just as the front door banged open. A little boy dashed outside and ran down the porch, followed by a woman.
