I pulled him closer. “Yes,” I said. “We can do that.”
Sunshine crept through the window, cutting across the floor and settling over us. And for the first time since Jake was taken, I felt my heart beat like it wanted to stay.
36
SCOTT: THE WALKING DEAD
In the beginning, there had been a purpose to my walking: find Jake. That was all. Staying home and waiting felt like a betrayal. Movement became the only thing that made sense. Every day, I walked until my feet blistered and my calves burned. I followed roadways, cut through sand dunes and dry riverbeds, trespassed into abandoned buildings on the concrete outskirts of town. As long as there was air in my lungs, I kept moving. Because Jake was out there somewhere, and I’d promised Michelle I’d bring him home.
Walking became more than searching. It was survival. The only way I knew to quiet my mind long enough to sleep—short of stealing Michelle’s medication—was to exhaust myself completely, to walk until my feet ached and my thoughts slowed, until I was too tired to picture Jake’s fear. Too tired to imagine what he might be enduring.
I’d felt something similar once, years ago, stuck in a stranger’s car, every instinct in me screaming. I’d been lucky; I’d gotten out. After Jake was taken, that memory came back hard and often. Because now he was somewhere with that samehorrible feeling—only there was no door handle, no red light, no moment when he could decide to run.
And that was the thought that kept me walking. One foot in front of the other. God, I was tired. But no. Not yet. Another mile. Maybe two. Then I’d go home. Collapse. Maybe if I wore myself down enough, I’d sleep through the night.
And if I didn’t—
The nights were long and fractured. I’d wake up gasping, my heart racing as the sheets twisted tight in my fists. In those early morning hours, I’d turn the blame inward, asking myself how I could have been so naïve. I’d let Jake move through the world with confidence, let him believe it was safe. I should have prepared him for what lived beneath the surface, should have warned him to fight harder and trust less. Somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself this seaside town with its laid-back living and sun-bleached calm was a safe place to raise children. I’d let them roam, ride bikes, skate the sidewalks, just like my mother had let me.
And if that was a mistake, then it was mine.
Up ahead, a car pulled off the main road and onto the shoulder. Tires crunched over gravel, raising dust and forcing me to walk through it. As I approached on the passenger side, the window rolled down, and I stopped cold. No. It couldn’t be. The man had my face, just older. My father. And worse, he looked good—fit and healthy, like someone who’d turned his life around, maybe even built a whole new family.
And all it cost him was leaving me behind.
“No,” I said, my heart pounding. “No.”
“I saw on the news about your son. About… my grandson. I’m so sorry.”
Years of pent-up rage erupted. “He’s nothing to you. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
My father flinched. Good. Whatever pain he felt had stopped mattering to me a long time ago. I shot him one last look and moved past the car, my walk breaking into a jog, then a sprint.
But he followed.
The car rolled alongside me.
“Three minutes,” he called out. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“For what?”
“To talk.”
“Talk?” A bitter laugh tore out of me. “You’ve got nerve.”
The memory of his betrayal put a fire under my already-dead legs. I pushed on with whatever dignity I had left. The car passed me again and pulled onto the shoulder. He stepped out and walked straight toward me.
“I wouldn’t,” I warned, my hands already curling into fists. “I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
“That’s just it,” he said, meeting my stare. “You have everything to lose.”
I closed the distance until we were inches apart.
“Get in your car,” I said. “Before I put my fist through your skull.”
He took several cautious steps back until his back was against the car.
“Hit me if it helps. I deserve it. But, Scott, this walking has to stop. Go home. Your family needs you.”
