MICHAEL Chapter 22 | May 2, 1992 | Tarson, Georgia

THE BUZZING I FELT IN my palms from the girl’s vocal cords straining past the pressure of my hands lingers now, even though I washed my hands clean in the river. And I do feel clean—despite the crust of sweat on my face, the smell of the woods in my hair. I feel clean. I feel… new.

I saw the world in that girl’s eyes, a flash of last light like the universe spinning around the sun, her last sound, soft and pure. I heard it over the rushing water; I hear it even still.

Maybe Mother was right. Maybe I am destined for more, saved by the river, and I must go. I must leave this town. I must find my fate.

Mother may have taught me that, but she won’t let me leave if she’s awake. It’s the leaving that hurts her most. So I will spare her that pain and be gone come sunup.

In the dark, I stuff my backpack with clothes and all the cash I can find in the house. On my way out, I press her door two inches ajar. From her outline, I can tell she’s lying on her back, rigid even in sleep.

Lady Fate requires patience, a skill Mother’s never mastered. Even if she did, Lady Fate demands obedience, and Mother answers to no one. I once considered that trait an asset, a line I might possibly reach only once Mother was dead and chilly. Now I see how it limits her, and I cannot allow her limits to stifle me.

I retrieve my father’s walking stick from the hall closet, slip through the front door, and lock it behind me. The night is quiet and black and still. Then a wind picks up, sudden and warm, and the trees bordering the left side of our yard and the boundary of Tarson Woods sway. Branches saw against one another, and in the grind I hear my father whisper my name.

I stumble down the three steps of our front stoop and into our narrow yard, dry grass crunching underfoot.

Michael.

I run into Tarson Woods, zigzagging between boughs and ducking under low hanging branches.

Michael.

Louder now. Cold River roars ahead, the fallen tree still balanced between two banks, sagging in the middle.

Michael.

I reach the river’s edge. Timmy stands on the opposite bank, pointing at my feet with a skeleton finger, blood matted in his red hair, eye sockets empty, his left cheek peeled back from time and water and blow after blow after blow.

Something cracks, splinters; then there’s a rush as the middle of the fallen oak gives way. The two halves of the rotted tree plummet to the water and are pulled downstream twenty feet before coming to a tenuous resting place. Now my breath is the only sound, the river continuing as if nothing has changed, the woods quiet, the wind and the voice and Timmy evaporating into the night.

Timmy disappeared three years ago. In retrospect, it was amazing how quickly people stopped looking, how quickly they assumed he’d fallen in, how quickly they accepted a body wouldn’t be found. It took me longer to carve piano keys from his femurs.

I stare down at the fallen tree, at the gap between the two halves where the black water sails through.

I step out of my shoes and leave them on the bank.