Page 104 of The Serpent King

And then the Pentecostal fire returned. “You flaunt the commandments of God by dishonoring your father and mother in this way. There is a place of eternal torment set aside for those who flaunt God’s laws.”

“I honored you enough to come tell you face to face. That’s more honor than you deserve.”

Dill’s father leaned forward, hands on the table, his eyes boring into Dill. A look of surrender passed across his face. Dill knew his father must have had that look on prior occasions, but he had never seen it before. “This is the doing of the whore, isn’t it? Your little Delilah. Lydia. Your mother told me about her. How she spoke in your ear.”

Dill felt a swell of white-hot rage; it tasted like iron in his mouth. And then he understood. Your rage is what he wants. Deny him it. Whatever he wants you to be—whomever he wants you to be—deny him it.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dill said quietly. “You have no clue. And I feel sorry for you. I hated you. When I thought I’d become you, I hated you so much. I was less afraid to die than to become you. But now that I know I’ll never be you, I can finally feel sorry for you.” And with that, Dill turned and walked away.

“You will fail,” his father called after him. “You will fail and fall. Dillard? Dillard?”

But Dill did not look back.

Outside, Dr. Blankenship was waiting in the parking lot, the back of his Prius full of purchases from Trader Joe’s.

“Hey, Dill,” he said as Dill got in. “You ready to go?”

Dill nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Hey, Dr. Blankenship, while I’m thinking about it, could I trouble you in a couple months to give me a ride to MTSU? I looked into buses, but it’ll be hard to do.”

“You bet. No trouble whatsoever. I’d be glad to help you get settled in.”

“That would be amazing. I would appreciate that so much.”

“We can even swing up to Nashville if you want to come by here to visit your dad.”

“No, that’s okay.”

The days of summer bled together in a haze of work and more work. Without a single friend left in town, Dill had little use for free time. He worked for Dr. Blankenship during the day and worked nights at his old job at Floyd’s, and gave his mom as much money as he could while saving some for school. He spent what scarce downtime he had writing songs or talking with Lydia. They spoke every day.

Lydia kept busy at her internship during the day. At night, she worked on the expanded version of Dollywould that Dahlia and Chloe had put up the money to launch. She was bringing in outside writers for the first time and taking on broader issues of interest to young women. It was already getting favorable buzz and snagging high-profile interviews.

A month or so after Lydia left, Laydee saw one of Dill’s videos in Lydia’s Twitter feed. She retweeted it to her 1.9 million followers. That got things rolling for Dearly in a big way. A few weeks after that, Laydee’s manager called to talk to Dill about Laydee’s recording one of his songs on her next album. In a tone that suggested she was understating things greatly, she told Dill that he’d be able to buy a few textbooks with the royalties.

Dill sat in his living room, waiting for Dr. Blankenship, with everything he was taking to college surrounding him. Two thrift-store suitcases full of every piece of clothing he owned (including what had come in a box Lydia had sent him from New York), a set of sheets, and a towel. A backpack with his laptop inside. His guitar. His songwriting notebooks. He surveyed his meager possessions with wonder over the unexpected course of his life.

The night before, he’d had his own solitary goodbye ceremony at Travis’s grave. He left a Krystal burger. He was playing his first coffeehouse gig the next night. It promised to be a full house.

Dill’s mother, dressed in her maid’s uniform, walked in and looked around, her face grim. “I’ve seen God’s plan for you, and this is not it,” she said.

“How have you seen God’s plan for me?” He pointedly banished any hint of rancor from his voice, even though he knew he wasn’t going to like her answer. He didn’t want a cloud over his leaving.

Dill’s mother’s stony aspect softened. “When I held you as a baby and looked into your face, the Spirit revealed it to me. Your place is here. Working hard, living simply. Living in a godly way.”

Dill ran his fingers through his hair and looked away. “There was a time I would’ve believed that.”

His mother recoiled. “You don’t anymore?”

Dill studied the carpet for a moment, fixating on the discolored patch that sometimes caught his eye while he sat playing his guitar. “I have a memory too. When you were in the hospital, in a coma after your wreck. The doctor told me you might die. I held your hand for hours, listening to the machines beeping and breathing for you, and I asked God to heal you and to make my life better someday. And he has. He sent me people who made me feel brave and like I have choices. Now I believe God gives people lots of paths they can take. Not just one.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And you think this is one of the paths he’s given you?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. Not as though expressing disagreement—more as though trying to make her ears a moving target for what Dill was saying. So his words wouldn’t make it in. “What you think is God might be Satan appearing as an angel of light.”

Dill smiled wistfully. “Trust me, the angels I know would have told me if they were Satan.”

“That’s not funny.” Dill’s mother brushed a stray wisp of hair from her eyes. “You’re different than you used to be.”