Prologue
Seventeen Years Ago
Lance leaned his bikeagainst a fence post on the outer edge of the driveway and looked down, again, at the brochure in his hand. It was a little crumpled from the tight grip he’d kept on it, but the laminated image still reflected under the afternoon sun. He knew it was time. He knew he needed to say the words.
Just like he knew he didn’t have therightwords to make his family understand.
He started down the dirt drive, letting himself take in the property as if he might never see it again. The goats were up front, chewing lazily on bushes and grass. On his left, shielded in chicken wire, was his mother’s garden. Every year it was a struggle to grow and maintain. It didn’t seem worth the effort to him. He could smell fire burning from the woodstove in the house, but that was no surprise. He was a little surprised he could still distinguish that smell, even. The woodstove was almost always burning.
Up three steps, each one creaking under his sneakers. The small porch held potted plants of herbs his mother used in their meals and a single chair beside a small plastic table, with an ash tray on top that was probably melted into the plastic for how often it moved. His father loved to sit out there and smoke his morning cigarette, looking over their piece of land like he was king of something.
Lance pushed the old wooden door open, turned, and threw his shoulder into it to get it shut again. The damn thing had swelled so bad the previous winter it was warped beyond repair, but his father refused to go into town to replace it.
Everyone in his family was stubborn as shit.
He was no exception.
“Lance? Where the hell you been, you’re late!” his mother called from the kitchen.
Lance shrugged out of his backpack and dropped it against the wall where he always did, still holding onto the brochure. He sucked in a heavy breath, closed his eyes, and waited until he heard the clink of his mother tapping a pot with her spoon impatiently to blow it out. Then he headed for the kitchen.
Their old dog, part hound, part some type of shepherd, raised his head to watch as Lance crossed by the small family room. He gave a low woof of greeting.
The smile that lifted Lance’s lips was strained. He’d had that dog most of his life. When his parents blew up at him in the next few minutes, and he ran, Bolt was who he’d miss the most. It wasn’t even a question.
Still, he kept moving until he was standing at the edge of his mother’s territory. “Sorry for being late,” he offered. She wouldn’t forgive him.
She narrowed her eyes at him critically, then turned toward her stove and stirred whatever stew or soup she was making for dinner. “Your father’s going to tan your hide for skipping out onchores again,” she said. “This place doesn’t run if we don’t all chip in you know. Even that old dog does his part.”
Lance ground his teeth and held the brochure a little tighter at his side. “Where is dad?”
“Out back, probably still working on that damn generator.”
“I need to talk to you,” Lance said, firming up his voice. “Both of you. It’s important.”
His mother didn’t even turn her head. “We can talk over supper. At least go wash yourself up, it’s almost ready.”
He really hadn’t wanted to have the talk at the dinner table, but he supposed he should have known better. Lance bowed his head, mumbled his agreement, and dragged himself the opposite way through the house. He’d wanted to have the talk before sundown. That was out the window.
He freshened up in the bathroom, then took the opportunity to grab his toiletries and slipped into his room. He had an old sack that looked like something out of the previous century, but it would do just fine. So, while he waited for dinner, he picked out the clothes he might keep and the things he might take with him, and packed them as best he could into the sack. He grabbed his sleeping bag, because he knew his father’s temper, and set both things on the bed. Half his stuff would still be left behind, but he supposed he’d known that.
Lance blew out a sigh, hauled up both items, and trudged back down the hall. His mother would be focused on setting the table and dishing out whatever meal she’d made. She tended to have tunnel vision when she had a task. He hadn’t heard any doors creak or slam, so his father was still out back. That made it all too easy for Lance to quietly set his things down beside the front door for when he’d need them.
Then he ambled into the family room to spend at least a few minutes more with Bolt. Even though each stroke of his hand over the old mutt’s short fur hurt more than the time his fatherkicked him into the yard and his back had cracked on the deck railing.
“I thought I told you to wash up!” his mother screeched as the back door slammed shut. “What good is washing up if you go and pet the dog? Do it again, and come to the table, supper’s ready.”
Lance sighed, kissed Bolt’s head, and retraced his steps to the bathroom.
A tense silence had already settled over the table by the time Lance took his seat. Their table was square, and technically seated four. But Lance’s little sister had passed away a few years back, so her seat was empty. It would always be empty.
“What the hell you been up to, boy?” his father demanded. “You were supposed to chop the wood after school. You think I’m not busy enough around here?”
Lance stared down at the stew waiting for him. Thick, gelatinous brown gravy clumped around chunks of potato and beef. Smaller pieces of chopped vegetables added color but wouldn’t add much relief to the heavy flavor of the stew. That was how his mother cooked them. That was how his father liked them.
He clenched his hands beneath the table, further crumpling the damn brochure, and forced himself to meet his father’s glare. “I need to talk to you, actually.” He glanced toward his mother, who sat silent and immobile, waiting for his father to eat. “Both of you.”
His mother frowned.
