CHAPTER 3
The silo walls start to blur around me, like someone's takin' an eraser to the edges of everything. The grain dust that's been dancin' in the light freezes mid-air, suspended like stars in a dead sky. Eleanor's ghost flickers at the corners, her form dissolvin' into something less substantial than memory.
"Legion," a voice cuts through. Not Eleanor's. Not the past. "Legion, please. Your fever's too high, baby. You gotta come back to me."
Savannah.
Adult Savannah. Her voice breaks through whatever this is—hallucination, fever dream, death. The panic in her tone feels like cold water splashin' against my consciousness.
"They're sayin' the infection's reached your bloodstream," she continues, words comin' from everywhere and nowhere. "You need to wake up now."
Eleanor's ghost disappears completely. The silo walls start to fade, and something else bleeds through—the rhythmic beep of machines, the squeak of shoes on linoleum floors, the clinical smell of antiseptic cuttin' through the grain dust.
I don't move. Can't move. My body feels anchored to a different reality than my mind. The brand on my chest—the one that was missin' in the memory place—burns with real fire now. Not the ceremonial kind. The kind that kills.
"Mr. Kane, can you hear me?" Another voice. Clinical. Professional. "If you can hear me, try to open your eyes."
I don't. Not yet. There's somethin' unfinished here. Somethin' I need to see before I can go back. The infection might be killin' me, but this journey through memory feels just as vital. Like if I don't finish it, I'll lose somethin' more important than my life.
I'll lose myself.
The hospital sounds warp and dim as I push them away. The silo begins to rebuild itself around me, grain dust resuming its slow dance in the light. But it's different now. Less solid. The edges of everything have a transparency to them, like I'm seein' through the thinnest veil.
I feel time pressin' down. Whatever grace period my mind's been given is runnin' out. The light in the silo shifts, shadows extending across the concrete floor. Afternoon moving into evening. My time here fadin'.
I stand in the Terry Garage parking lot, sweat soaking through my shirt like I'm under a goddamn waterfall. The midday heat beats down on the asphalt, making the air shimmer and warp.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since yesterday's half-sandwich at the garage where I work full time now for part-time pay.
Just as I'm lifting the last box of parts off the truck, a gleaming white Range Rover pulls into the lot, kickin' up dust that settles on my already filthy jeans. I don't need to see the driver to know who it is.
Eleanor fuckin' Ashby.
"Not now," I mutter, turnin' away like I don't see her. "Go away."
My life's a goddamn mess this summer. Savannah didn't come home at all—off at some fancy horse camp in England with people who probably wipe their asses with hundred-dollar bills. It's like that girl exists in some parallel universe that occasionally crosses with mine, just enough to remind me of what I can't have.
And now her mother shows up, probably wanting to take more pictures of the poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Like I'm some fuckin' zoo animal she's studying.
But when Eleanor steps out of her luxury SUV, there's no camera in her hand, just a yellow envelope.
"Legion," she calls, her voice carrying across the parking lot. I wince when the guys in the garage—previously ignoring me like I'm invisible—suddenly look over, taking an interest in whatever's about to unfold in the parking lot with the local poor kid and the Ashby Queen. "I was just passing through and saw you."
Passing through Terry, Montana?
Right. I almost laugh.
She walks toward me with that confidence rich people have—like the world was built for them to move through it.
"Happy birthday," she says, holding out the envelope.
I freeze with my hand on the truck door. Nobody else remembered. Not my mama, who's been working doubles and sleeps when she's home. Not little Destiny, who's only three and spends most of her time hiding from Deacon's moods. Certainly not that bastard Deacon himself, who's been demanding more and more of my hard-earned cash to stay away from our trailer.
I'm flat out broke these days and it's really starting to piss me off.
The Badlands crew hasn't noticed me either, despite working at the Terry Garage for over a year. I've been trying to get them to let me prospect, but they look through me like I'm made of smoke. A kid on a Honda Shadow with no connections isn't worth their time.
Not even Savannah remembered my birthday.
