It was now the hour that turns back the longing
of seafarers and melts their hearts, the day they have
bidden dear friends farewell, and pierces them . . . he hears
in the distance the bell that seems to mourn the dying day.
   —Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio

AMBITION WAS a forty-three-foot custom-built yacht. It was a Farr-designed racing vessel and had cost a small fortune, but William Herrick had never used it for racing.

Two miles out into the lake, with the Ambition heeling under the press of its powerful mainsail, William put the helm down. The sail crackled with the violence of the turn as the boat pushed itself aggressively upright. The mainsheet whipped around the cockpit, and Matt nearly dropped his coffee.

The turn of the boat seemed unintentional for a moment. Matt hung against the side railing, a few feet above the water, and gripped the thermos tightly with one hand. The papers in his hand fluttered forward against the pull of gravity and wind.

“So what are you doing now? You got plans after leaving the sheriff’s office?” shouted William from the helm. Matt turned, unable to speak over the sound of the sail snapping over them. The mainsail caught the wind on one side, then the other, as the hull came to a halt and began to slip backward against its rudder.

William made a sound Matt could not hear. Then the sound quieted as the mainsail caught the wind and the boat surged forward onto a new course. Herrick came forward and leaned over the mainsheet track, putting a piece of paper into Matt’s hand. “You shouldn’t worry about this, Worthson. I’ll have my accountant take care of your pay for the next few months—and your pension too.”

Numbly, Matt opened the envelope flap and glanced at the top page. A figure with many zeroes was printed on a check that fluttered in the wind. Quickly, he put his thumb on it.

“Now, I hear that Andy Merrill is trying for some sort of grand jury indictment on you.” William sighed. “But once Russell is elected, you’ll be fine. I’ll lean on Valerie and Russ, and we can just get that wiped off the books. You’ll walk away from this.”

Matt looked up incredulously. “You’ll work with Valerie to protect me?”

“Look, my sister and I may disagree on nearly every matter. But blood is always thicker than water. Both of us know that our fortunes rise and fall on the foundation our father laid—and I think I am correct when I say that both of us would use any possible method to preserve our father’s legacy. Ultimately, this is self-preservation.”

Matt gathered himself and closed the envelope. The movement of the boat was smooth now, nothing to throw him off balance. “I’m not going to cash this check, Mr. Herrick.” William glanced up at the curve of the sail and shook his head. “Look, Matt, we’ve known each other a long time. My father was the first one to promote you, right?”

Matt nodded. “That has no bearing here, Mr. Herrick. I need to know why you—”

William held up a finger. “Ah, but it does. I’ve known you long enough to be straight with you. I’m talking to you because you can help my father once more.”

“Your father’s dead. He’s been dead for nearly ten years.”

“Too true,” said William. “But his legacy lives on. All the work he did here in the Silver Valley, laying the groundwork for Herrick Industries. And now there’s a very simple story to be told, and there’s a less flattering one. You know both of these stories, and I want to ensure that you keep telling the right story.”

Matt sighed. “Jesus Christ, why all the secrecy? What game are you playing?”

But William wasn’t listening. “Look!” He pointed at the sky. “They’re out. I had hoped to see them here. Sad, no?” Against the clouds fluttered small black specks. They moved erratically, up and down.

“It’s the middle of winter,” said William. “Bats hibernate. Yet here they are. And the weather being cold, occasionally they hit the lake. Let’s see if we can find a downer.”

Matt looked down. The boat’s reflection was fading. The wind had dropped and the Ambition slowed its forward motion. Behind them, barely a ripple of wake scored the lake.

“What story are you telling?” said Matt. “Some fairy tale about Curtis Siwood?”

“See, there you are.” William turned from the lake. “You and I both know who did it—Curtis Siwood, that deadhead in the lake. Your problem is to prove it, and I can help you do that. I can help you prove it beyond a doubt.”

“You believe in the story I’m telling?” said Matt incredulously. “You believe Curtis did it? Finally someone who believes the story that—”

“Well,”—William’s eyebrows went up—“there’s little sense in being coy about it. I did, after all, tell Curtis that he had to talk to Arlen. He did get a little bit more adventurous than I expected, it seems. I don’t know what got into his mind, but he was very angry when he finally caught up to Arlen, and I think that poor preacher paid for it.”

“You hired Curtis Siwood—you, you knew who he was the whole time?”

William nodded sadly. “Curtis always was a sadistic fucker. Of course he would be the one who did that to Arlen. I didn’t exactly hire him to do that, but I knew it was always possible. Anything was possible with Curtis. That’s why—back in the ’70s—I recommended Curtis to help out my dad’s saboteur in the Silver Valley.”

“Jesus Christ, your father had a saboteur? Someone assigned to do this job?”

William gave him a strange look. “Yes, of course. And I thought by now you’d know something about sabotage. I would have assumed that you knew.”

Matt moved away from the mast, approaching William face to face. “Jesus Christ! If I had any standing at the sheriff’s office, I’d arrest you! You’re confessing all this?”

William stared down at him, as if surprised to see him on the boat. “No, of course not. I’m not confessing anything. It was, in a business sense, entirely unavoidable. I regret it, of course. Yet Arlen’s death was unintentional. Collateral damage, so to speak.”

William looked away from Matt. He pointed down. “Look. In the lake.”

Matt glanced down at the black water, at the thin bits of ice that swirled against the side of the boat as it passed. Something was moving. An animal. It was a small thing, no bigger than a mouse. For a moment he thought it was swimming, except that its head seemed too big for its body. Then he saw the almost transparent wings, floating on the water, and he realized it was a bat. Somehow, it had slipped out of the sky.

Matt had only seen a bat up close once before. That other time, the bat had been sitting on the porch swing at their house, all wrapped up in its wings, as if it were cold. It had been a little thing on the porch, its fur a soft gray brown, its eyes small ink spots of life.

Most of the fur on this one was wet. It stuck up in spikes, like a tiny soaked rat, part of it already under the surface of the lake.

“We should rescue it,” said Matt. “So it can fly again.”

William looked at him, a blankness in his face. “Why? It’s the middle of winter. It doesn’t belong here in the first place.” He shrugged, a slow and uncaring movement. “But it might save itself after all. Life continues to be unpredictable.”

Matt stared down at the floating bat. After a moment, he could see that the bat was not really struggling against its death. It was staying in place, not moving forward or back. He could see that it might be some time before it sank. He saw that if the bat fought harder, it might sink faster. In its perpetual uninterested action, it would stay above a long way before it sank. The chill in the air brought a shiver over Matt.

The bat was staying afloat, but barely. It lifted its head out of the water to breathe.

Then Will Herrick spoke again. “I was sorry to hear about that boy’s death,” he said. “I hear they worked on him for a long time. I did not care for his life either way, but I know you wanted him to make it. For your sake, I wish he had lived.”

“Thank you.” Matt looked up at him. It was impossible to read William’s expression before he looked away again.

“My problem—” began William. Then he put his hands together, as if he were praying. “But perhaps it’s not right to think of it as a problem. My concern—is that in your attempts to ‘clear your name,’ you may inadvertently make public statements I’d regret. If the story were told in the wrong way, it could be quite hurtful to me and my business. Incidentally, it would also, of course, hurt you. So I don’t think you’ll do so. And in fact, let me be clear with you, Mr. Worthson, I won’t permit you to endanger—”

“You’re making threats now? I want this on the record!” shouted Matt. “You should know there are people who know I’m with you—Richard Stanford, my wife, they both know I’m out here with you. You can’t—”

“Calm yourself, Worthson. I’m not about to do anything callous or rude.” William glanced down at their darkly pulsing wake. “Just a friendly chat between old friends.”

Matt glanced back. The shoreline was farther away now.

William came closer, was almost whispering to him now. “I gather you already know much about Siwood’s activities in the Silver Valley. You may not know that after this man Siwood got back to the Silver Valley, he also talked to me, and he said—”

“What he said will go on the record,” said Matt shortly. “If you’re connected to him, you may be culpable too. I discovered a notebook that names illegal activities done for Herrick Industries in the 1970s, payments made by your father. I will sink your entire—”

“You won’t be sinking anything.” William’s tone did not change.

“Goddammit, Herrick, I’m going to find out who wrote this notebook, who did all this dirty work for your father, for your company. I’m going to find out, and then I’m going to nail you. I’m going to clear my name too. Why did you do this? Why . . .”

William held up his hands, as if surrendering. “You tell me. You tell me. After all, when Curtis Siwood visited your father in the hospital, the nearness of death seemed to wake some latent flicker of conscience in him, didn’t it? He told the whole story then, I fear. That’s what I regret now, in fact. That was the first hole in the dike.”

“Pop?” Matt’s mouth opened slowly as he stepped back against the rail. “Curtis Siwood visited my pop? What story did he tell? You need to stop this damn boat and—”

“Sure, I’ll stop the boat,” William said mildly. He seemed unperturbed. “I’ll just go below and engage the diesel engine, so we have some heat and light here. Care to join me for a drink? I have a good bottle of Scotch below decks— shall I warm your coffee?”

Matt brought himself off the rail. “I quit drinking,” he said. “Or didn’t you hear?”

William raised an eyebrow. “More coffee then. I’ll get it from the cabin.”

After William poured the coffee, he spoke again. “Let me tell you some thing—a parable, if you will.”

“Goddammit, Herrick, I need to know what you are saying about Pop— about—”

Herrick continued speaking, his voice rising over Matt’s interruption. “Listen to this. A parable: Imagine with me that you are serving on a mining board of directors in the Silver Valley. You have a problem. I know you’re not much of a businessman, Mr. Worthson, but I will pose the question in a simple way so you can be sure to understand.”

Matt took a drink of coffee, sloshing the bitterness around in his mouth. “I’m sure I can understand a lot more than you think I can, Mr. Herrick. What’s the problem?”

Herrick nodded. “All right—you’re on the board, as I said. Lead and silver prices have jumped up to—what was it at then—fifteen dollars an ounce. Now keep in mind, Mr. Worthson, it hasn’t hit those levels since, not in the fifteen years since.” He looked away, muttering to himself. “I think we made the right decision. It was the only thing we could have done . . .”

Then he looked back at Matt again. “So you, of course, have your miners working around the clock—you remember a time period like that. The boom time in the Valley. In the ’70s. Every miner had a new four-by-four, every mining family had a roast on the table. And that was due to the fact that all the mines were working overtime, getting that silver and lead out of the ground and processed to be sold on the world market.”

“Okay, I got it so far. I’m a mine owner, have a successful run in the metals market,” said Matt. “Look—we’re close enough to save it now.” He pointed at the bat.

In the pulse of the water’s motion, the bat turned its head slightly, and looked at them with tiny, glittering eyes. Then the eyes moved away as the bat lifted its upper body out of the lake. “What about giving me a hand?” Matt picked up an aluminum boat hook by the toe rail and reached out, touching the surface of the water. “We can get it out.”

“Listen to this—I want you to answer a question.” William pursed his lips and spit at the bat in the lake. “I want you to hear this story. In the middle of the boom time, the baghouse thimble room goes to hell. The smelter bag.”

Slowly, Matt put the boat hook down on the deck. “What is a smelter bag?”

“Hmm, I’m glad you asked. That’s critical to my little parable here. The smelter bag keeps lead oxide in check. It’s the primary air recovery system. With that very important piece of machinery broken, the air system doesn’t do jack-fucking-shit. Now, we know the government says you have to have that smelter bag in place, but we can’t get one right then. A factory has to custom manufacture it, and that’ll take five months. Bottom could drop out of the silver market by then. It’s happened before.” William leaned forward so he could see Matt’s face. “Here’s the choice: either we shut down for the winter, or we keep making money.”

“That’s the only choice? What does this have to do with—”

“That’s the choice, Mr. Worthson.” William put a hand on his shoulder. There was pressure in his grip, and suddenly Matt sensed the cold of the open water a few feet away. “And that’s the question: what would you do?”

Matt thought it through. “Keep digging. That’s what I’d do. But what does this—”

William took his hand off Matt’s shoulder and walked toward the foredeck. “Right you are,” he said. “Hell, we’ve got hundreds of miners and their families dependent on us for income, for development in the Valley. Keep digging.” He chuckled. “Damn the engines, full speed ahead. Damn the twenty years of lead oxide we’re going to drop on the people here. Keep digging.” He chuckled again, but it didn’t sound happy.

“You didn’t mention the lead oxide,” said Matt. “On the people in the Valley?”

“Ah, but I did. You just weren’t paying attention, just like most people who smell money. You’re a good man, Mr. Worthson. You’d just keep digging. Keep making the money.”

Matt placed the boat hook back on the deck, and William turned at the sound.

“But in all seriousness, I should have been more clear. Sure, the lead had real consequences. Twenty years’ worth in three months. And it bothers me, even today, I must admit, even though I recommended the same course of action to my father. It bothers me, even after all the good that came out of it. I mean, look at what it did.” William pointed at the small, furry shapes that moved in the night sky.

Matt looked up at the dark specks fluttering. “What do you mean?”

“Look,” said William. “There are bats out here in the middle of winter—but they’re supposed to be hibernating. As near as I can figure it, something toxic in the mine tailings has caused their wires to get crossed. So they come out now, and die quick deaths in the cold. For all I know, that unfortunate boy who was burned in the cabin fire and shot by those overzealous deputies also had toxins in his head that impaired his judgment.” He sighed. “I can tell you honestly, it’s enough to make one cry.”

Matt steadied himself against the shrouds, looking out at the lake. The bat was still in the water near them. He saw it took no notice of him any longer, and realizing that, he saw it was better that the bat did not have a purpose to move toward. It was less complicated this way, reflexively moving, back and forth on the rippling water.

“You know, the liberals, the troublemakers in the Valley, they think I’m not an environmentalist. That I don’t give a damn about the lake’s beauty, the animals, the people. But I do. Yet sometimes there must be a sacrifice, in trade for our livelihood.”

“A sacrifice?” Matt looked down at his shivering hands. He didn’t know if his hands shook from the cold or from the anger.

William shrugged. “Whatever you want to call it. In trade for the greater good.”

Matt looked out at the water. Close at hand was the bat. It gasped air in again, a repetitive motion that he saw was something like flight. The wings moved the body like arms would move in a butterfly stroke, pushing it down and then lifting it up. In between breaths, the bat kept still. The bat had nothing else in its deepest parts except that sense of staying in place.

“I brought you out here to prove that the mine had to keep operating. After all, it is only by development, by having money in the system, that we’re going to be able to clean up the Valley. The only way is by being on a sound economic footing. As you said, we had to keep digging. That’s the choice you made.”

Matt watched the bat and felt himself calm. There was no anger in the bat’s movement. Animals did not feel sorry for themselves or their purposes. Yet already the color of its fur was nearly indistinguishable from the dark water. The tiny, sleek head was hardly moving, as if the bat realized that struggling would also bring it to drown.

Matt could hear William walk aft to the cockpit. The engine came on, and the boat turned in a circle. The sail hung loose—they were under power. William was at the wheel, moving them back toward the distant dock. Behind them, the sky was turning into ash.

Slowly, Matt walked back along the length of the yacht. He felt as if his own words, his own thoughts were twisting in the wind, wound up by William Herrick and tied in new directions. The boat vibrated gently with the engine sound as Matt approached the hatch. William took the engine out of gear. “Can you give me a hand with the sail?” he said.

William went forward in the cockpit. He loosened a coil of halyard and laid it on the cockpit floor, then released the cleat lever and eased the sail down until the boom dropped against its topping lift and the sail began to lay itself over the deck. With Matt’s help, William pulled the folds up over the boom. Then he went below to get the sail cover.

When he returned, Matt spoke. “This story about the Bunker Hill mine— what game is this?”

William reached over the boom and tied the folds of the sail in place. “It’s not a game,” he said. “It was a business risk. Unfortunately, if we’d let the general public know what happened at the Bunker Hill, the government might have stepped in.”

William snugged up the mainsail sheet and began coiling it in long, easy loops. He stepped back behind the helm and put the engine in gear again.

“Fenders and docklines are down below,” he said. “Can you get them for me?”

From the cabin, Matt pushed the fenders out into the cockpit, uncoiling the heavy rope as he went. William took one of the heavy lines from him and began to uncoil it on the deck. When he was done, he spoke again.

“So, we made the best calculation we could. We weighed the considerations of a few lawsuit-happy people against the greater good—all the economic benefits we’d bring to the Valley by continuing to operate.”

Light was washing out of the clouds, a deeper darkness emerging from the depths of the lake. Matt shook his head, as if to clear it. “What do you mean? What lawsuits?”

William stood and looked out at the lake as the boat moved under its own power. “The self-serving lawsuits that we’d assume would happen once the lead levels came out. Frank Woodruff calculated that the liability cost would be only about $6 to $7 million, if we had to settle with each one for $10,000 per kid, if their parents wanted to cause a ruckus.

“Fortunately, no one ever sued us, despite a whole bunch of kids who can’t think too well. It turned out all right. The Valley gained, we gained, and Herrick Industries gained. The mine made profits of about $26 million that year.

And look what we’ve done with my father’s legacy—just look!” Ahead of them, the city lights flickered in the breeze, the many skyscrapers and the great lights of the Coeur d’Alene Resort glowing into the night, jeweled spikes reflecting across the water.

“But your company was doing something illegal—you were poisoning the—”

“C’mon, that’s how the world works,” said William. “Laws are like spiderwebs. If some little person comes up against them, he’s caught. But the bigger ones can always break through and get away.”

“What’s that—some private code of ethics you made up to benefit the Herricks?”

“No, Mr. Worthson, I didn’t make it up. The philosopher Solon said it first, over two thousand years ago. You should read more, broaden your horizons. The world has been this way for a long, long time. You should understand these things by your age.”

“But . . . but . . . but why didn’t the lawsuits happen? Why didn’t anyone sue?”

William raised both eyebrows, it made his face look innocent. “Why, because none of them knew. Your father buried the records. In fact, all I had to do was merely suggest it—I can take no responsibility for what happened after that. In any case, they still can’t pin down the origin of that lead in the local ecosystem. It’s only this year that a doctor duplicated the tests we did in Kellogg in ’72. They discovered that heavy metals aren’t indicative of longevity either.”

William’s face broke open, revealing a sadness underneath. “Bunker Hill’s gone bankrupt now. All the directors took a cut and shut it down. Now no chance of a lawsuit. Assets are scattered to the four winds.” He turned away and stepped down behind the helm, then put the engine back in gear. The stern settled slightly as he opened the throttle and steered them toward the moorings.

Matt stepped into the cockpit. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this. But I do know that Herrick Industries was involved with the Sunshine somehow.”

William grimaced, as if he’d smelled something unpleasant. “I had nothing to do with that. The Sunshine fire was a sad tragedy. But I’m surprised you brought that up, Mr. Worthson. This may be more fruitful than I thought. After all, you would have kept mining for silver, remember? I think your father always said the same thing.”

Matt clenched his fists. “You keep talking about Pop, but my pop never—”

“I can’t believe he never had the courage to tell you.” William nodded his head gently, as if remembering. “When Curtis last spoke to him, I understand your father had no question as to his own guilt.”

“That’s a lie!” But Matt felt his conviction waver, remembering the look in his father’s face in the hospital room, a terror in the eyes after he could no longer speak.

William paused momentarily, and then continued speaking. “As to the kind of assistance he provided to Herrick Industries through the last fifteen years—”

“He wouldn’t sell out the union like that! My father was no rat!”

William held up his free hand, as if testifying in court. “I personally would not call him a ‘rat’ at all. Your father was a principled man who helped Herrick Industries with a few tidbits of information. Judiciously chosen. In fact, often my father and I did not know what information he withheld. We greatly appreciated his assistance, as it helped to destroy that irritating union. I have the proof, but even now, I would honor his memory, his secrets.”

“What secrets are you talking about?” said Matt. “Dammit, get to the point, Herrick!”

“Hell, you don’t know anything, do you? I got you put on the resort case because I figured you already would know everything your father did—I thought you’d easily discover Curtis Siwood’s involvement, and you’d know immediately that Curtis was connected to what your father had done for me.”

“You thought I’d already know this—and then I’d do what?”

“Obviously, once you saw all this, you’d shut down the investigation, find a scapegoat. Perhaps you would even go so far as to close the file, an unsolved case. I thought that was the point of that kid Kevin, but in conversation with Andy Merrill, you seemed to be fighting his arrest. When I heard that, I did take the step of suggesting his arrest. And, of course, I managed to throw Andy Merrill off the scent by convincing him that you were the guilty party.”

“You were the cause of—”

“Mr. Worthson, your own life is such a mess, convincing Andy of your guilt wasn’t at all hard to do.” William looked over at Matt, a sneer on his face. They had reached the marina. William cut the throttle back and steered in among the slips. “Frankly, it never occurred to me that you would chase this case to the source without understanding your self-interest. Hell, in my family, blood is always thicker than water, but I should have foreseen this contingency. Of course, if you didn’t know anything about your father . . .”

William aimed the Ambition neatly between the finger docks and pulled the engine into reverse, jabbing the throttle as they came to a stop against the dock. “I never expected to have this conversation with you. It seems that instead of your father, I am now the one forced to help you. I have no doubt that once you understand, your self-interest will make clear only one course of action. Your father is implicated in—”

“Dammit, you keep insinuating things, but what kind of proof do you have?”

William stepped close to Matt and whispered to him, “Before I show you the proof of what your father did, I want to express my hope that you will not break our trust. The proof is ironclad, but I’ve never broken your father’s confidence before this moment.”

William stepped down inside the cabin hatch, taking a green file folder off the chart table. “That’s why I’m giving this copy of my records to you, Matt. You’ll find that every entry here correlates with that notebook you found. I believe that notebook was your father’s record of our transactions. These documents prove that Stan Worthson worked for years to cover up the misdeeds of Herrick Industries. This is your father’s entire legacy, your history in the Silver Valley. You’re part of it now, you always have been.”

Matt felt something give way inside him, a tide breaking over all, drowning him. He took the folder with a quavering grip. “Jesus . . . Pop, Jesus . . . ,” he whispered.

William looped his line under the horn of a dock cleat, snubbing it gently. He turned toward Matt, his eyes steady. “How is he, anyway? Is he at peace?”

“Yes, at peace,” whispered Matt hoarsely. “He just went to hospice. Not long.”

William put his fingers together, again as if he were about to pray. “It’s touching, the way he’s become so religious, isn’t it? A fine affectation, at the end.”

The boat settled into the slip. William stepped to the dock. He wrapped the rope carefully around the cleat and made up the bowline. He said nothing more to Matt.

Quietly, William Herrick began whistling as he locked down the boat. As Matt stepped off the boat, he recognized the tune. You are my Sunshine, my only sunshine . . . Matt saw that on the horizon, there remained a touch of the flames that edged all the western rim of the world as night came.

In darkness, Matt reached out to the side table. There, he fumbled for Sall’s sleeping pills. The sound of her breathing rose and fell as always beside him.

His throat was parched and dry. He saw the same images every time he closed his eyes, as if they’d been seared inside his eyelids. Pop’s rheumy eyes looking up at him, the red talisman nested in his palm.

When the pills put him back to sleep, Matt had nightmares. Infinite mine corridors in flames. Mineways, stopes filled with choking smoke. Men falling, dying, all around him.

The previous afternoon was the last time Matt had seen his pop alive. Pop had been at home again, a hospital bed and a half-ton machine crammed into his tiny living room, a nurse visiting him every hour before he died. When Matt sat down beside him and began to talk, a groan came out of him, the sound like an engine turning over.

With an effort, Pop lifted up his arm. He opened his fingers slowly, as if they were being pulled apart by pliers. Matt looked down to see a red thing, the other half of the blasting cap on Curtis’s chain. Pop looked up at him, pleading with him to understand.

Matt woke, surprised to find his face wet, his eyes full of tears. He was awake again, at two in the morning. He couldn’t stop remembering the contents of Will Herrick’s file, all of the pages detailing payments made over the years, information shared, confidences broken. Payments that bought Matt a new bike, that paid for health insurance, money that paid for Matt’s only year of college, that paid for a down payment on the very house that Matt and Sall lived in now. The legacy of that inheritance would always be with him, the memory of when he first read the file. The knowledge caused his heart to race, an urgent terror running through him again.

He could see his father’s face, coming out of the mine that day all those years ago, after seven days underground. He imagined the choking smoke inside a drift shaft, the miners searching desperately for air. He saw his father reaching down to him on the wrestling mat, rescuing him after injuries.

His father was gone now. His son was gone too.

The snow fell endlessly outside the window. He seemed unable to break the sense of moving without volition, a train on the tracks. He walked to the kitchen.

Matt reached up above the sink and gently shifted the molding that hung askew above the cupboards. He reached up to that hollow that was as familiar to him as a cavity in his own body. He drew out a miniature bottle, from an airplane trip. It wouldn’t help him, he knew it wouldn’t, but all he needed was a little taste, enough to fill the wound inside.

The glass of the bottle was warm from its storage place. In the dim light, he could barely see the amber fluid that remained inside. He unfastened the screw-top lid and the heady scent of the alcohol rushed into the room. He held on tight to the table, not daring to move.

Then he saw it in the corner of the kitchen, exactly where he’d dropped it the night before. Kev’s old backpack, the stains unchanged since his death.

Gingerly, Matt put the tiny bottle on the table, placing it steady so it wouldn’t spill. The little pack made him remember the smoke, the frantic stare Kev had given him before the wind moved into the room. All around him now were the memories of the flames, the walls seemed to tremble as he looked. Not knowing why, he stood and picked up the pack. Something rattled and crinkled inside. He fumbled with the zipper and the seam nearly came apart in his hand. A sheaf of old envelopes, the secret Kev had tried to give him.

Something in his mouth trembled. He sat down at the table and closed his hands around the papers before the tremble hit them too.