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He lifted the container. I nodded and loaded up in my Jeep. He watched me leave, and I was relieved to be out of there. Disappointed didn’t begin to describe my thoughts, but I wasn’t exactly sure why. There was something interesting about him that intrigued me, but at the same time, I was wary. I didn’t expect things to be quite so awkward. He didn’t scare me as much as my lack of experience around men made me apprehensive. I was completely ignorant. Ignorant wasn’t exactly the right word because I was experienced in a lot of things, but not anything I wanted experience in. As the gravel crunched under my tires, I racked my brain concerning that familiar intuition I kept having. My hand subconsciously pulled my chain out of my shirt, and I ran my left thumb repeatedly over the raised words. I turned on a gravel road that led toward the closest town, Kennedy, Kansas. What was it that felt familiar exactly? At first, I thought maybe it was Soren, but I dismissed that. I remember having the sensation before I ever made it to his house. I drove around for a solid twenty minutes, hoping for an inkling of a memory, and in a town the size of Kennedy, Kansas, I had seen everything twice. The town was a combination of old historic limestone buildings that were untouched and a few that appeared painstakingly restored. You could tell the community took pride in their small town. It had that charming, rustic modern overtone that made it contemporary but cozy. The town centered on a square of land that housed the city park that hosted flower beds and colorful birdhouses. There were shade trees and benches along with a wooden play structure that gave the impression it had been there for at least a couple of decades. A trail for walking or running wove throughout it all. The city block was framed by local shops such as a library, hardware store, diner, bakery and a farm store along with several other local businesses. Around the block were lamp posts with hooks that held overflowing hanging baskets of flowers. This was the kind of small town where people dreamed of living. How could I have forgotten a place like this? I was in the middle of Main Street when it hit me. Abel. I slammed on my brakes without warning and a car honked from behind me.

“Sorry!” I called as if they could hear me as I sped up again.

This had to be where Abel lived. I pulled into a parking spot in front of the coffee shop and bakery that boasted of having the best pie and bierocks this side of the Mississippi, a claim that I would normally be very interested in testing out. “Spill the Tea” was painted on the large glass pane window in front, along with drawings of bakery desserts.

I immediately grabbed my cell, connected to the free Wi-Fi, and searched “Abel Kennedy, KS.” It had been years since I’d known him, so I couldn’t remember his last name.

When that yielded nothing. I reached for my chain, which, in reality, were military tags around my neck. Abel had given them to me, saying they were his Grandpa’s. There was a chance it was his paternal grandpa. The last name on the tags read Roberts. I edited the text in the search bar to say “Abel Roberts Kennedy, KS.”

I was giddy with excitement at the possibility of reconnecting with my childhood friend. Abel was one of those people that was a light in my childhood.

We had ridden on the bus together, and one day after I was bullied by another student, he had invited me to sit by him. From there on out we were inseparable. I remembered him being a boy that loved sports but had a soft heart toward new kids like me. I was in a particularly horrific foster home at the time. Abel had given me his grandpa's military identification tags because he said they’d make me brave given that he believed they made his grandpa brave. It was his kindness in the end that had helped me tell someone what was happening to me. This became the thing I cherished most after that and was the only sentimental item that made it through my entire childhood, becoming my touchstone when anxiety and panic threatened.

The search engine finally stopped spinning, and I felt every ounce of air evacuate my body at the first result. It was the image of a headstone from a website that helped individuals with genealogy research. What? The sensation of pin pricks rushed down my body as if I was doused in frigid water. This couldn’t be right. Tears pricked my eyes and my nose stung. This couldn’t be. Not Abel. I clicked the link with a shaking hand, determined to find that it had to be an error. A full photo of the headstone appeared along with the location of where to find it. My heartbeat raced as I worked to slow my intakes of air. There had to be an error. The headstone photo became more blurry as I zoomed in, pixelated to the point I couldn’t make out the small oval photo inset on the headstone. I blinked away my tears and input the cemetery address. I had to see it for myself. This couldn’t be. The cemetery was about five minutes away back toward the gravel road I had come from. I made it there in record time. There were about three dozen headstones scattered about, and the gate was open. A large oak tree sat in the corner, barely outside the fence, while the grass inside the cemetery was cut short. I clutched my phone as I climbed out of my Jeep, scanning for a headstone that matched the screenshot I had taken since I suspected I might lose cell service again. There were several headstones off to the side near the tree. There was one near the corner that resembled the one in the photo. It was taller and thinner than the others and came to a point at the top. I circled the stone and engraved in a bold font was the name.

Abel Griffin Roberts

The small portrait photo resembled an older version of the kid I had known. According to the dates, he was seventeen when he died. My fingertips traced his name carved in the cold stone.

NO! No, this couldn’t be right.

A sob overtook my body as memories and emotions rushed in with the force of a tsunami. How could this be? I crumbled against the headstone, willing memories of my time here to stop. I rested my back against the corner of the cold stone and pulled the chain over my head, cradling it in my hands. Tears flooded down my cheeks and trickled down my jaw. Abel was the only person I had ever considered a real friend growing up. We were seven or eight years old when I lived outside of the town of Kennedy and attended the same school as Abel. Abel’s friendship profoundly impacted me, most likely because of my erratic childhood. My mind was working overtime to unscramble the flashes of memories in my head. Sweet memories and horrific ones jumbled together. I think I had been placed in this town for the spring semester of my second-grade year. That summer, I was removed from the foster home I lived in after I confided in a neighbor, an action I never would have been brave enough to do without Abel. I squeezed my eyes shut and patterned each intake and exhale as my therapist had taught me. Abel had been the only thing that kept me going those few months. He was the only light in my life. I had thought of him many times over the years, and every time, I envisioned him living a happy life. Never this. Never cold in a grave. His light dispelled the darkest parts of my soul when I had been with him. I couldn’t believe he died when he was seventeen. He was just a kid. They always said the good ones die young, but something about his light leaving earth felt incredibly selfish. Abel’s light had lit up some of the darkest parts of my childhood, and I couldn’t imagine how I would have survived without it.

Chapter

Eight

Sawyer

(Age Eight)

I received one hundred percent on my spelling test, and Mrs. Barnes said she was proud of me and that I could do the advanced word list next time.

I pulled my blue coat tight, but it didn’t make me any warmer. The cold wind blew on me as I walked from the school building to the bus. It was missing three buttons. I couldn’t wait to see my friend Abel.

Mrs. Thompson brought me to school today, so I didn’t get to ride the bus this morning. I liked sitting with Abel because he was nice. He made everything better. I climbed the steps and walked toward our seat. He was already on the bus. As I was walking past the fifth row, a foot shot out and tripped me. I hit the floor with an oomph. The weight of my faded blue backpack held my thin body down. Tears stung my eyes, but I wouldn’t give Jimmy Johnson the satisfaction of letting him know my knees hurt from the fall. Jimmy was always mean. This wasn’t the first time he’d pushed me around. I wasn’t sure what I had done to the fifth grader to make him bully me, but I wished I had never met him. But there were a lot of people I wished I had never met. Abel leaned his head out into the aisle and saw me on the ground. His big greenish eyes widened, and he rushed toward me.

“You okay, Sawyer?” His eyebrows were squished together.

“Yeah.” He reached for my upper arm to help me up. I gasped. He didn’t know there was a bruise on my arm, but I needed his help because the backpack was too heavy.

“Awww . . . Seth, look. Abel has a thing for Bony Baloney.”

Jimmy snickered, and I tugged my jacket closer. Seth laughed.

“Bony Baloney?” Seth asked, still laughing.

“Yeah, she’s bony, and she smells like baloney!” Jimmy and Seth laughed like it was the best joke they had ever heard. They were mean and dumb.

I wanted to scream that I wouldn’t be bony if someone fed me regularly. When you only ate Monday through Friday at school, I guess things like that happened. As far as the smell. I didn’t like it either. I hated being dirty. I hated when my fingernails were dirty and my head felt itchy. I hated that there wasn’t a lock on the bathroom door. I had tried to figure out how to work the washer and dryer at the Thompson's house, but I wasn’t tall enough to reach the knobs. I had to drag a bar stool to the laundry room to climb atop to reach. The last time I tried that, Mr. Thompson had found me in there and by the time he was done, I didn’t care what my clothes smelled like. I felt dirtier than my clothes, except it was the kind of feeling that water couldn’t wash away.

I hated Mr. Thompson. I hated Dawton. Sometimes I hated Dawton worse than Mr. Thompson. I hated all of them. Dawton was the reason my arm was bruised. He was a bully like Jimmy Johnson half the time, and the other half . . . well, he was a lot like Mr. Thompson.

“Jimmy Johnson, you shut it or I’ll tell your dad what a stink face you are!” Abel replied. As if by some miracle, Jimmy quieted. I didn’t understand why, because Abel was much smaller than Jimmy. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to be safe by the window seat and have Abel sitting beside me. I made my way to the bench seat we always shared.

“Sawyer?”

I turned to look at him and lugged off my backpack. Set it in my lap and wrapped my skinny arms around it. I used it as a pillow sometimes because I could actually sleep on the bus. I didn’t know why, but sometimes I wondered if it was because I felt safe enough to sleep.