Jail cells are a pain in the ass. Literally.
The holding cell is the same as it was a year ago: cold and small as a closet. Not only that, but I was tossed in here with the guy whose face I had every intention of breaking tonight. Officers in this town have a really twisted sense of humor.
Matt claimed the metal bench when we got here an hour ago, so I’ve been stuck on the floor across the cell—there’s no way in hell I’m sharing that tiny bench with him. The tissue the officer gave him for his nose lies bloody in the middle of the floor, like some gross boundary line.
The steady tick-tock of the clock across the station echoes throughout the room. Old Officer Concord sits at his desk beneath the fluorescent lights with his feet kicked up as he flips through his hunting magazine for what’s got to be the tenth time.
The door to the station creaks open and slams closed. Coach Taylor yanks off his cap and moves through the room, quick and smooth as a fox. He doesn’t even look in our direction; he heads straight to the officer, who begins whispering. And whispers some more, and more. Which can’t be a good thing.
Finally, Coach looks up. Walks toward our cell, with the officer at his side. I shove to my feet, same as Matt, and hurry to the metal bars. The officer called both our dads, asking if they’d rather have Coach Taylor come down to “clear up this little mess.” At first, I was relieved. But now, Coach’s gaze locks on me alone. And that gaze is full of more fire and brimstone than Hell itself.
Shit.
The lock on the cell clicks, and the door screeches as it opens. Matt and I slip out, though Coach and the officer block us from hightailing it out of here.
Coach clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips. “Officer Concord,” he says, not breaking my gaze. “Can I get a few minutes alone with these two?”
Double shit.
Seconds later, the door to the station slams again. Coach’s voice is hard as stone as he says, “I’m gonna need to know what happened here.”
I jerk my thumb toward Matt. “He started it,” he and I say at the same time.
Coach rubs his face. “I asked for that,” he mutters. “Whatever did happen, the town got wind of a good ol’ blowout between two teammates.” He claps, loud and slow. “Congratulations, boys. You’re the talk of Lewis Creek.”
I can’t breathe. I cannot breathe. These people already don’t trust me—the last thing I need is more fuel for the flames.
Coach continues, “And here’s the verdict from the arresting officer himself: Matt, since your record’s clean, he says you’re free to go.”
Matt shoves off the bars. “Then why am I still in here?”
Coach steps toward the cell, hovering over him. “Because I didn’t say you were free to go. We’ve got a mess that needs cleanin’. Which is why he called me out here when I’m supposed to be at home, enjoying some quiet time. You’re welcome.” He glances at me, and the disappointment on his face hurts worse than the jackhammer going to work in my head after getting slammed against the pavement. “Eric here isn’t so lucky. Randy claims he started the fight. But Kellen and Blake say that Matt shoved first.” He purses his lips. “I like that version better. We’re going with that one. That one gets Eric out of jail.”
Yes. Yes, let’s go with that one. You know, the truth.
He looks back to Matt. “And if you go running your mouth saying otherwise, consider yourself off my team. Got it?”
Matt lets out a loud laugh. “Really? You’re really gonna take his side in all this? Look at my fucking nose, Coach.”
Coach narrows his eyes. “I’m doing what it takes to keep this team in one piece. Raise your voice, or mouth off to me one more time, and you won’t play another day of baseball in this town. Do we understand each other?”
Matt nods, grumbling a “Yes, sir.”
“I’m gonna tell y’all one more thing,” Coach continues, “and I hope to all that’s holy that you’re listening. You’re two of my best veterans. You know good and well that I have absolutely zero tolerance for this crap on, or near, my field. So you’re gonna learn to keep your smartass mouths closed, and you’re gonna keep your hands to yourself. Can I trust y’all not to kill each other this year?”
I nod as I mutter “Yes, sir” along with Matt.
“Unless you’re on my field, I want you two apart,” Coach adds. “Show up and shut up. End of story.” He points to the door. “Harris, go out and wait by my truck. I’ll give you a lift once I’m done with Perry.”
Matt’s out the door faster than I can blink. Coach settles that glare on me again, the ticking of the clock echoing in our silence. I swallow hard and finally admit, “Coach, Matt barely touched me. I mean, he shoved me, but I should’ve walked away.”
“You just turned eighteen,” he says without missing a beat. “Matt’s seventeen. If he and his parents were so inclined, they could press charges for that busted nose. That’s assault and battery on a minor, and your backside would be in here for good. This way, he might actually keep his mouth shut.”
Coach’s smooth talking to the rescue again. I sigh with relief. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t. Don’t start thanking me, because I have no idea what I’m going to do with you yet.”
My eyebrows scrunch. “What do you mean?”
He blows out a breath and heads for the door, gesturing for me to follow. I trail behind him, lowering my head as he holds the door open for me.
The night’s cold, but it feels like heaven—my blood’s pumped into overdrive. The moon looms overhead, our only light aside from the tiny bulb flickering above the station’s door. Matt’s sitting on the back bumper of Coach’s truck, talking to Officer Concord. I can’t help but roll my eyes. I scan the parking lot, which is all but abandoned except for the officer’s cruiser, Coach’s truck, and—
Bri’s car. Which is parked beside Kellen’s truck. They’re both standing a few yards away, staring straight at us. Kellen’s predictable; he’s like freakin’ Batman, always showing up when you need him. But what’s Bri doing here?
“I’m really damn worried about you, Eric,” Coach says. I look back to him. “Officer Martinez told me about you stumbling into Joyner’s like an old drunk the other night. And we’ve got you drinking and driving last season, run-ins with the law all last semester, beating your own teammate in the middle of a parking lot, for Christ’s sake—”
“You didn’t hear what he said.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not the point. This town is looking to bench you before the season even starts. I’m on your side, but I told you to stay low, and busting a teammate’s nose isn’t it. What would it look like if you were out on the mound the first night of the season?”
I’m not crazy about the direction he’s heading. Despite the frigid air, sweat pricks my hairline. “It’d look like you’re a man of grace, and forgiveness, and—”
“Cut the shit. Nearly all your teammates were in that parking lot. How am I going to explain this to guys you’re supposed to be leading?”
“I’m tellin’ you, you didn’t hear—”
“I don’t give a damn what he said!” He glances around. “All I’m hearing are excuses,” he says more quietly, “and it’s getting old. I’ve got half a mind to cut you from the team.”
My heart plummets. Spinning. The world is spinning, and I have no idea if it’s from his words or the coldness or the smack of my head against the pavement. “W-what?”
“I keep bailing you out of messes, but it’s not doing any good when you dig yourself deeper and deeper.” He rubs his face. “Of course, if I did kick you off the team, you’d probably get into more trouble.”
No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. Damage control. Lord almighty, I need damage control.
“This team’s all I’ve got, Coach,” I try. My voice cracks, but I can’t even care. “I screwed up, okay? Royally. I know that. But you can’t take this from me.”
He points toward the road. “You are this town’s new starting pitcher. In their minds, you are second only to the sweet baby Jesus. They’re already on the edges of their seats, waiting for what’s next on The Eric Perry Show. So the sheriff and I can only make so much disappear when an entire restaurant full of people saw you being hauled away in the back of a police cruiser.” He pauses, and adds, “I’m starting to wonder if I should even try to make it disappear.”
I imagined this moment this afternoon—the moment when Coach Taylor, of all people, finally decided to give up on me. That I’m not worth the effort. I knew it’d suck. I didn’t know it’d make me feel half an inch tall.
“Coach, I—”
“Your parents know about last year.” His words slam into me with more force than a hurricane. All I can do is gape as he says, “I called them on my way up here tonight and told them all about the drinking-and-driving charge. I should have told them back when it happened, but I thought…” He blows out a breath. “I thought I was helping, but I never should’ve agreed to keep it quiet. When I say I’m worried, I mean I’m worried, son.”
Fuck. Just… fuck.
“Coach Taylor?”
He and I both turn. Bri’s standing beside us now, still in those practice clothes, her arms crossed tightly. The wind gusts, sending her ponytail all over the place. The girl’s probably freezing out here.
“Sorry,” Coach says, “what’s your name again? And why are you here?”
She clears her throat. “Um, Bri, sir. Bri Johnson.”
“Oh, yeah. Matt’s girlfriend.”
Right on cue, Matt hollers, “You here to tell him what really happened tonight, Bri?”
Coach closes his eyes and holds up a hand, signaling for Matt to knock it off.
“Ex,” Bri says quietly, and Coach’s eyes open. “His ex-girlfriend. And I’m here because this is my fault—wait, no, it’s not my fault. Eric’s the one acting like an idiot. But I’d bet anything that he was fighting ‘for me’”—she uses air quotes—“and I wanted to make sure he didn’t get completely screwed over.”
She’s right—I got this swollen eye for her. A little appreciation might be nice.
Coach blows out a breath. “So this was over a girl. It’s getting even better.”
“A girl Matt won’t leave alone,” I cut in. “He’s stalking her like a damn nutjob.”
He shoots me a glare before adding, “Then I guess he and I are having a conversation on the way home. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Bri, but I’ve already told Eric that I’m at a loss here.”
“There’s got to be something you can do. You can’t kick him off the team when—” She sighs. “When he was trying to do a nice thing. Kind of. Sort of.”
Coach shrugs. “If you’ve got any suggestions, I’m all ears.”
Yes. We are all ears.
Bri chews her lower lip. I study her face, trying to figuring out exactly what the heck’s going through that head of hers, until she lights up. “What about community service?”
“What?” Coach and I both ask.
Bri’s beaming, practically giddy. “Hear me out. You know how people get community service when they go to court? I volunteer every Saturday at the community center right outside Summerville. Maybe Eric can come with me.”
Hold up. Now that practice has started, Saturday is my only free day of the week. I’d have to give that up?
His eyes trained on Bri, Coach crosses his arms. “I’m listening.”
Of course, Saturdays are so overrated.
“We serve breakfast that morning, and I’m in charge of athletic time for the kids—I head up soccer there. So from, like, nine until noon.”
He tilts his head toward me. “You wouldn’t mind hauling this kid around every week?”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far, but the center could use the help.”
I look back and forth between them, like I’m watching some amazing, life-saving ping-pong game. Keep talking.
“How long are you thinking?” Coach asks.
Wait. Since when does my neighbor get to decide my punishment?
Bri shrugs. “I’ll be there every weekend until summer, so as long as you want him there.”
“Let’s say five weeks?”
I raise my hand. “Hey,” I say. “Yeah, remember me? Do I get any say in this at all?”
Coach levels me with a glare. “You want to keep your spot on this team?”
So that’d be a resounding no. And I’m strangely okay with that.
“Then it’s settled,” Coach says, that glare lingering on me. “You’ll help Bri at the community center every Saturday morning for five weeks. It’ll be good for all of us if it looks like you’re actually trying to work this off. I’ll let the boosters know, and I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to spread the word.” He looks to Bri. “And you’ll keep me posted on this guy. My office, Monday mornings?”
Bri nods. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
Coach claps his hands together. “Great. Fantastic. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He turns to me. “This is your last chance, Eric. I mean it. I used to let you boys have it out when you needed to, but you have your brother to thank for kissing that goodbye.”
I think back to last season, when my brother beat the shit out of a pitcher in the middle of a game for being a homophobic douchebag. He came out of it with a dislocated shoulder, but he didn’t regret it for a second. “Well, sometimes people deserve to get their asses kicked.”
Pure silence falls over us as Coach gapes at me.
Not my brightest moment. In my defense, I’m pretty sure I have a concussion.
“This is your lucky day,” he finally says. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that. You need a ride home?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Kellen calls from across the lot. He holds up his keys. “I’ve got him covered.”
Coach waves and starts toward his truck, not sparing another glance. I can’t blame him. The man’s a saint for showing up here.
After even more chatting with the officer, Coach and Matt climb into the truck. Only when the officer slips back into the building does Bri face me full-on.
She’s not exactly giddy anymore.
Bri
I’m not entirely sure why I came out here tonight.
Matt and Eric were fighting. They were freaking arrested. Eric nearly got kicked off the team. All because of me.
For a split second, I legit blamed myself, which is ridiculous considering whatever the heck is going on between them has been brewing for years and was bound to explode. But when they were thrown into the back of the police cruiser, I flipped into damage-control mode. I had to fix it. I had to make it right. As twisted as it was, Eric was trying to help, for the most part.
But I’m pretty sure the other part of him just wanted an excuse to beat the crap out of Matt. And to be honest, it kind of pisses me off that he used me as that excuse. So when Eric scratches the back of his head and says, “Thanks for that,” something inside me snaps.
I step forward, closing the space between us. Closer. Closer, until I’m practically standing on his toes. And I can’t help but ask, “What the heck is wrong with you?”
He narrows his eyes. “What the heck is wrong with you? I was sticking up for you!”
Yeah, two can play that game—I narrow my own eyes. “News flash: I don’t need you to fight my fights for me.” I’ve been doing enough fighting these past few months. And sure, maybe it took me a while to actually win the fight, but I did. I don’t need his help.
His shoulders drop. He swears under his breath. “You didn’t hear what he said, all right?”
Something in my chest twinges. It’s most likely my heart, because when you’ve spent months being a verbal punching bag for someone, the heart kind of takes a beating. Muscle memory, and all that fun stuff. “Trust me, I probably heard worse when we were dating. I’m used to it.”
He gapes at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. “You say that like it’s supposed to make me feel better.”
It doesn’t exactly make me feel like dancing through a field of poppies, either. The longer I look at him, at the swollen eye, the bruised nose, the split lip, the red, scraped cheek, the more I realize that yeah, maybe this was more than too much testosterone in one parking lot. Maybe this was a friend sticking up for another friend.
But that’d be easier to believe if we’d said more than a few words to each other over the past few months. It’d be even easier to believe if I was worth fighting for, considering I’m the reason why we haven’t really spoken in those months. My stomach sinks, knowing I actually let someone bully me into staying away from the guy who used to be my friend.
Shaking his head, he says, “Why’d you even come? If what I did was so Godawful, why are you here?”
The wind swirls around us, the breeze whistling by my ear. I don’t know why I came. Maybe because I’m a fixer. Maybe because I can’t stand to see others in trouble. Maybe because I really am stupid. Who knows.
Instead of answering, I back away. “We leave at eight on Saturday,” I tell him. “You’re either in my driveway on time, or I tell Coach to drop your butt. And don’t think I won’t.”
And I mean it. Mostly.
The drive home is quiet, except for Bon Jovi crooning through my speakers. I beat Eric home by a longshot, pulling into my driveway just past ten o’clock. I waited outside that police station for two hours. Two hours. I better not regret this whole saving-his-butt thing.
I cut the engine, sending me into complete silence. My house is dark. Inside, it’ll be even darker. Quieter. Tears spring to my eyes at the realization that I really, really can’t handle the silence tonight. Literally, cannot handle it. Blending into the shadows can provide this strange sort of comfort. But the downside is that if you stay in those shadows for too long, the darkness overwhelms you. Seeps into you. Weighs you down.
It consumes you.
I step out of the car and head for the backyard instead. There are two places around here that I’ve claimed as my own: the front porch and the roof of our shed. They’re good for different things. The porch is good for relaxing. For breathing. The roof gives open access to the sky. To the stars. To dreaming.
Tonight, I need the stars.
The old red shed came with our house. It was worn and raggedy when we moved here, and it’s even more worn and raggedy now. I grab our rusted ladder and place it against the side of the shed, the metal creaking with each step I climb. I hoist myself onto the roof and settle onto the narrow patch of flat-top.
Stars are amazing. Some nights they shine brightly, showing off their brilliance. Some nights are a little dimmer than others, but you can still see the light. And some nights, they’re hidden behind the clouds. But even after all those nights of being hidden, after all those nights of being suffocated by the clouds, they show back up to shine.
Stars are like people, if you really think about it.
I’ve been dim for months without even realizing it. It’s almost like a frog being placed in a pot of water. The frog just thinks he’s in for a swim, right? Like, this is awesome! Too good to be true! And then you turn up the heat bit by bit, and slowly, the frog is cooked through.
(Seriously though—poor frog.)
Luckily, Becca saw how miserable I was and pulled me out of the pot just in time. But now? I don’t know who the heck I am anymore. I don’t. And I think that’s the worst feeling of all: knowing that you’re lost and you don’t know how to get back. This time last year, I was top of my class and kicked ass on the soccer field. And then I let someone into my life, into my heart, into my head, and he jumbled all that up.
As cheesy as it sounds, those stars up there give me hope. That maybe I can break through the clouds and, I don’t know, shine again? And tears stream down my face as I look at those gorgeous, gorgeous stars, the proof that you can shine again.
I don’t know how the heck I ended up here, but this isn’t where I’m staying.
Eric asked why I helped him tonight, and like everything else in my life right now, I just don’t know. I hate not having answers.
Maybe because I know what it’s like to not even realize you’re boiling until someone yanks you out of the hot water. Until a friend drags you to the crappy barbecue place in town, and tells you that you’re so much better than the guy who’s been treating you like you’re disposable. That no, you’re not stupid. That you don’t have to make anyone else happy but yourself.
Maybe I saved him because we all need saving once in a while.
Eric
I know she heard us pull into the driveway. Hell, even if she didn’t, a big clue would’ve been the headlights shining directly on her like a spotlight. But Bri stays on the roof of that shed, like she does most nights.
I don’t think I’m supposed to notice that she’s out there so often; everyone needs their own place to go when things go crazy, and that’s always been hers. The last thing I want is to bug her when she needs her space. But honestly, I wish I could climb up there with her right now. A quiet night under a wide-open sky sounds like heaven.
But her ignoring me is the least of my problems. I sit in Kellen’s truck as it idles in my driveway, the heat spilling onto me as I stare at my house. All the lights are on, including the porch light, which means my parents are probably watching and waiting. Biding their time. Prepared to pounce as soon as I walk through the door.
For whatever reason, I lucked out with Bri coming to my rescue with Coach. I have a feeling I won’t be so lucky with my parents. Especially now that they not only know I’ve been arrested before, but that I’ve been hiding it for a year.
Kellen clears his throat. “You gonna be all right?”
I glance over, only to catch him watching my knee bounce at the speed of a fastball. “On a scale of heart failure to crapping my pants? Somewhere in the middle.” Taking a deep breath, I say, “Distract me. Tell me something good.”
“Like what?”
“Like—good, dude. I don’t know. Tasha! Tell me about the weekend with Tasha.” Tasha’s his girlfriend up at USC, who came down to spend the weekend with him. They’ve been dating for over a year, and are probably the most chill couple I know. No drama. Just two people who’re up for whatever, whenever.
He shifts in his seat, resting his elbow on the windowsill. “We argued all weekend.” He looks at me, apology in his eyes. “Try again?”
I gape at him. “I didn’t even know that you knew how to argue with someone.”
He holds up his hands. “You asked, I delivered, bro.”
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head. “Sorry, man. Seriously. And sorry about your weekend. That blows.” I look back to my house. Still waiting. Still looming. Still not going anywhere, so I guess it’s now or never. I open the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
He tosses up a wave as I hop onto the driveway. He backs out into the road, leaving me alone with the green mile. Because I may very well be heading to my own execution. Black eyes are hard to hide, and mommas are really unforgiving when it’s clear those black eyes mean you’ve been fighting.
The “getting arrested a second time” thing doesn’t exactly help my case, either.
The house is warm and quiet when I walk inside, the living room a dewy orange thanks to the corner lamp, but the kitchen shines brighter than an interrogation light. Which would explain why my parents chose to sit at the table there.
My head pounds as I kick off my boots at the door. Trudge across the living room, into the kitchen.
Momma stands. Stares at me for a long moment with tear stains covering her cheeks. And walks right out of the room.
That hurts worse than the slam I took against the pavement.
Dad remains in his seat at the head of the table. I rub the back of my head. “Can we do this tomorrow?” I ask him. “I’m wiped.”
He nods to my seat. “Sit.”
Sitting it is.
The clock ticks in our silence as he looks me up and down, no doubt taking in the beating Matt dealt. Leaning forward, he folds his hands on top of the table.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, his voice low. Measured.
My side of the story? Gladly. I tell him every last detail, right down to the swing I took because I am, if anything, honest. Besides, if I was tossed into a cell, I think it’s clear that I wasn’t exactly a saint tonight, either.
He nods slowly, processing everything. “And last year,” he says, even more quietly. Which is a million times more frightening than him yelling. Here we go. “Let’s see if I understand this: You got drunk at a party. You got behind the wheel of your truck, while drunk. You could have killed—”
“I know it was stupid, Dad, but I didn’t—”
He slams his hand against the table, and I nearly jump out of my seat. His face flushes as he points at me. “You do not get to make excuses. You do not get to talk back. You get to sit there, and you get to take this like you should have a year ago. Do you understand me?”
All I can do is nod. “Yes, sir.”
Another moment passes before he finally says, “Grounded. A month, at the very least. School, practice, church—that’s it. You’re damn lucky we’re letting you even step foot on that field this year.”
A month. A month will take us to the first game of the season. Thank sweet Jesus they’re still letting me have that. I nod again. “Okay.”
“And now, punishment.”
My head snaps up. “But I’m grounded.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Yes. That’s what we call a natural consequence for getting arrested. Twice. And lying about it once.”
The man has a point. I settle back against my chair. “I’m doing community service,” I tell him. “At the community center outside Summerville. On Saturdays, with Bri. She offered so that Coach would let me stay on the team.”
Pursing his lips, Dad nods slowly. “Well, that’s real nice of Bri. Really generous. Except that sounds like your punishment for Coach Taylor, instead of us.”
I had to throw in the Coach part.
Dad leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “The church’s cleaning team works awfully hard every week. I think it’s time they got a little vacation.”
Oh, no.
“So if you’re so interested in community service,” he continues, “you can clean the church every Saturday night for the next month, while you’re at it.”
We have the biggest Baptist congregation in Lewis Creek, which means we have the building to match. On my own, that’d take me half the night. “Dad—”
“And if you want to argue,” he cuts in, leveling me with a glare, “I don’t care what kind of deal you made with your coach—you will not touch another bat between now and graduation. Is that clear?”
Swallowing hard, I nod once. “Yes, sir.”
He leans onto the table, his eyebrows furrowing. “And let me speak very slowly, and very plainly, so you can hear me loud and clear: If I catch a hint of alcohol on your breath between tonight and the day you’re twenty-one, the Lewis Creek jail will be the least of your concerns.” He tilts his head toward the doorway. “I’ll drive you to Joyner’s to pick up your truck tomorrow. Bed. Now.”
Gladly. I push away from the table and head to my room, careful not to wake my sisters as I close the door. In the darkness, I glance at Brett’s bed before I flop back onto my mattress with a grunt, the springs screeching beneath me.
Yeah, it’d definitely be good to have him here. And considering I left my phone in my truck—and my keys are probably in the middle of the Joyner’s lot—there’s no way I’m talking to him tonight.
Damn it all, dude.
The door to my room opens, light from the hallway spilling into the room. Momma steps inside and tosses her phone onto my bed. “Your brother wants to talk to you.”
Well, if that isn’t the work of the angels, I don’t know what is.
I pick up her phone, which is lit with Brett’s picture in the background, and call her name before she leaves. She pauses in the doorway, arms crossed. “How long are you gonna be mad at me?” I ask.
She sighs. “Tonight, I’m pissed. Tomorrow will be better.” She closes the door and her footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving me in the darkness.
“Hey!” Brett shouts through the phone.
Blowing out a breath, I bring it to my ear and lean back against my pillows. “Not that I’m complaining, but how did you know to call? Divine intervention?”
“Momma called me and said you need someone to straighten your ass out. And since you made Momma say ‘ass,’ now I’ve got to know what actually happened.”
I guess I better get used to telling this story. The entire night spills out: the fight, what actually led up to the fight, landing in jail, and Bri coming to the rescue. He’s quiet for a minute before finally saying, “Well. Damn.”
I stare at the ceiling, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Yep.”
“You’ve gotta think about stuff before you start swingin’, bro,” he says. “I know Harris is a dick, and he had it coming, but you won’t always have people saving your ass. You know that, right?”
I swallow hard.
“You’ve got a good thing going,” he continues. “You wanna mess with Harris? Fine. Stick toothpicks in his yard. Cover his truck with cow shit. You’ve got an entire arsenal of things you can do without screwing yourself over.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, rubbing my eyes. “Yeah, I’ll try.”
After telling him bye, I toss Momma’s phone onto the nightstand and relax into the pillows. My eyes close on their own, sleep barreling toward me with the force of a freight train.