Page 116

Dallas hesitates. His lower lip quivers, just for a second—just long enough to show the storm brewing underneath. Then he straightens his spine like he’s older than nine, like he’s had to be.

“He didn’t want me when it mattered,” he says, voice thin but steady. “He left us with that monster.”

My chest knots, and Lou goes still beside me, fingers digging into my arm.

Dallas swallows hard. His voice is soft, but it cuts through the silence like a blade. “He doesn’t know anything about me. Not what I like. What I hate. Not even how I like my pancakes.”

He glances toward us—his eyes shining, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to fall apart. “But Henry does. Louis does. Even though she can’t cook, she still tries for me. Burns the pancakes almost every time.” He gives the faintest hint of a smile, trembling at the edges. “But she shows up. Every morning. Every time. They didn’t have to love me…but they chose to. And if Louis has shown me anything, it’s that the love you choose to give—especially when you feel you have nothing left—that’s the love that matters most.”

Silence folds over the room like a shroud.

I hear Lou’s breath hitch like something inside her split open.

If she cries, I will too, and I can’t—not here. Not now.

The judge clears her throat gently. “What do you want, Dallas?”

He blinks, and a tear slips down his cheek. He swipes at it fast, almost angry at himself for crying.

“I just want to go home,” Dallas says, voice small but clear, like he’s holding it together with both hands. “Home. Where Lou sits with me at the kitchen table and teaches me how to draw the feelings that get stuck in my chest—so they don’t eat me up inside.”

He glances toward her, eyes already shining. “She’s sassy. Real sassy. Always got something to say and never lets anybody talk down to her. She yells when she’s scared, and hugs so hard it knocks the wind out of me, but never—not once—makes me feel like I’m too much. She tells me grief doesn’t mean something’s wrong with me. That it just means I loved real big—and that’s not something to be ashamed of.”

He swallows, hard. His small hands clench in his lap.

“And Henry…” Dallas’s voice cracks, but he keeps going, steady as he can. “Henry takes me to Thunder Lake when my chest feels like it’s going to explode. He lets me scream into the trees and skip rocks until the ache gets quieter. Sometimes we fish, even if we don’t catch nothing. He says it isn’t about the fish—it’s about having a place to breathe.”

He wipes his nose on his sleeve, glancing toward Henry. “He never makes me explain what’s wrong. He just stays.”

A long, aching silence.

“I just want to go back there,” he whispers. “To the people who love me…and who I love more than anything.”

Lou gasps softly beside me. I can’t breathe.

“Thank you,” the judge says, and excuses him.

Dallas passes us, brushes Lou’s fingers just barely with his. She catches his pinkie and doesn’t let go until he’s out of reach. And when that door shuts, we’re left with silence.

Not peace. Just silence.

Epilogue

DALLAS - AGE 17

“Mama! Have you seen my sketchbook?”

Her silhouette fills the doorway like something out of a fever dream—paint-splattered overalls, blonde hair wrangled under a bandana, and those stupid-ass cow slippers flopping with every step. Dad’s thrown them out more times than I can count. She always digs them back up like they're sacred.

She stands there like she’s been holding the weight of the world in one hand and my sketchbook in the other.

“You left it on the kitchen table again,” she says, voice all dry amusement and grit. “Had to damn near crawl through your brother’s biohazard of a bedroom to get it. Smelled like old socks and something I’m not ready to identify.”

I had just turned eleven the day they brought Memphis home—swaddled tight in a hospital-issued blue blanket, eyes scrunched and wailing like the world had already disappointed him. Uncle Merc asked if they were really keeping the name, and Daddy just said, “Hell yeah. We’re not changing it—it’s fate.”

I kiss her cheek, grounding myself in the familiar scent of her—oil paint, cold coffee, and the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask questions. That just stays.

“Thanks, Mama.”