Brent sat nervously in the high school principal’s office. Mr. McClaren had gone to the assistant principal’s office where Galen Todd was receiving his punishment, leaving Brent feeling anxious and alone. His parents were going to let him have it. Again.

Galen was a kid he’d been having fights with for the past few years—fights that oftentimes got out of hand. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had started their conflicts back in junior high school. Regardless, they didn’t like each other, and rarely did it take more than a wrong look in one or the other’s direction for words to let loose. Such was the case this day.

Brent had been in the lunchroom eating when Galen had passed by his table. This time it had come to more than words, and they’d been caught. Again.

Undoubtedly, this would result in a minimum of multiple detentions and a letter home. But he knew in his gut that they had both stepped over a line this time that would net them some suspension time.

Brent touched his lip for the umpteenth time, wondering if it looked as fat as it felt. Man, am I going to get it. He hoped against hope for detention. He could forge his dad’s signature on the letter—proof that the issue had been dealt with at home. He could also develop an excuse for why he was spending non-basketball-related time at the school.

You’re not going to get that lucky this time, and you know it.

Brent wanted to yell. Why had he let Galen goad him into another fight? At least he won’t fare any better.

Mr. McClaren walked back into his office, pulled the door closed behind him, and sat down behind his desk.

“Brent, seriously, what is it with you? You’re a bright kid; you’re smarter than this.”

“I don’t know, Mr. McClaren. I’m kicking myself now,” responded Brent, hoping that his sorrow-filled tone might somehow lessen the blow he knew was coming.

Mr. McClaren leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes for a moment and made a few of his habitual, Morse-Code-sounding hums. Then he sat back up and rested his folded hands on the desk.

“I’m afraid I can’t be lenient this time.” He looked Brent directly in the eyes. “Brent, I like you. You’re a pretty good kid. And when you’re not around Galen, you’re a model student. But, that doesn’t reduce the need for this punishment. It only makes it harder for me to exact it.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to suspend you. The two of you are getting five days each. But, since Mr. Harris caught Galen starting the conflict, he’s going to be sent home to serve his. Yours will be served here at the school.”

“Sounds like he’s still getting the better deal,” remarked Brent.

“Only if his parents don’t care. With five days out of school, they will count against his total absences. Yours won’t. But your days here at the school will probably feel a lot like confinement. You’ll do your homework, you’ll get to eat lunch if you bring something with you, and you’ll come out of it without having fallen very far behind in your studies. I doubt the same will be said of Galen.”

“And my parents?”

“We’ve already called your mom.”

Brent sighed. That figures.

“Brent, you can make this time worthwhile, or you can rebel against it. It’s all up to you.” Mr. McClaren handed Brent an envelope with what was probably the terms of his suspension. It had Mr. and Mrs. Lawton scribbled on the front.

“You’re probably already aware, but Mr. Chamberlin is in charge of in-school suspensions. You’ll report to him first thing in the morning.”

“Mr. Chamberlin? ... Coach Chamberlin?”

“That’s right,” confirmed the principal.

Brent dropped his head and brought his hands up to his face. Great, Brent inwardly moaned. This just keeps getting better and better.

1:15 P.M.

“WHAT IS IT with you? Another fight?”

“Mom, don’t get bent out of shape. You heard Mr. McClaren say that I didn’t start it. It was Galen.”

They were on their way home in his mom’s car, and Brent was getting an earful.

“Don’t even try it, Brent! I also heard Mr. McClaren say that you willingly retaliated. You could have left well enough alone.”

Brent shook his head and sighed. This was a fight he wouldn’t win, and when his dad got home from work he’d hear it all again.

“Yeah, Mom, whatever you say.”

His mom ignored the comment, probably thinking that it would make an even stronger point.

After a few minutes, they were back at home. He had a few hours before ‘final judgment’ fell upon him, so he went straight up to his room, closed the door, dropped his books on his desk, and allowed himself to fall backward onto his bed.

“My life sucks! I hate this!” he exclaimed. “Everything is going wrong!” He slammed his arms down on the mattress.

His thoughts progressed toward a conclusion that he didn’t want to consider. Maybe the voices were right. What if he did take the power offered to him? Could things—would things—change for the better? The thought made him uneasy. He rolled out of bed and stood up as if the mere idea might cause his ‘visitors’ to return.

This is crazy. Stop being an idiot.

Brent pulled the chair out from under his desk and sat down. He may be suspended, but that didn’t diminish the amount of homework he had to get done. Pulling his American History book out of the pile that he had brought home, he began to read.

THURSDAY,

MARCH 26 – 12:04 A.M.

BRENT LAY ON his back in bed. His hands were folded beneath his head as he thought about these latest events in his life.

It had been a long day. As expected, Brent’s dad had come home and “heard about it” from his mom. Brent had listened through his closed door as his dad put up a weak defense on his behalf.

“He’s a teenage boy, for crying out loud! Boys get into fights! Quit trying to baby him!” his father proclaimed.

His mom stood her ground, and then he heard his dad start up the stairs.

Upon reaching his door, his dad gave a couple of soft knocks and entered his room. Then Brent received the obligatory right-versus-wrong speech, followed by what Brent thought was a bit of an over-the-top grounding. Two weeks of no T.V., no phone, and no going out.

Now he lay consumed in his customary darkness from hell, feeling angry at the world.

“That punk is going to get it,” Brent voiced under his breath. He’d had it with Galen. The next opportunity he had, he’d make sure that Galen got the message: Don’t even breathe near me, or you’ll suffer.

“That’s it, Brent. That’a boy.”

Brent groaned. It was them.

“Ready now, Brent? Ready for the help we can give you?”

12:07 A.M.

HANNAH AWOKE AND sat up in bed. She was wide awake and alert, and she knew immediately what that meant. This time she didn’t waste a second with questions. She just began praying.

There wasn’t a twinge of anger for the interruption of her rest. She held no resentment toward the boy whose life was causing so much loss of sleep. She loved him and she used that love to fuel what she needed to do.

How many times had she also thought about walking over to her son’s home to use the phone to call her grandson? But each time that the thought entered her mind she dismissed it, feeling a check in her spirit, and knowing that her calls of concern might just add to the boy’s troubles.

No, this war would be won by God. His plan. His methods. She would not meddle beyond her simple obedience to God’s calls to act.

Hannah swung her legs out of bed, dropped a pillow on the floor, and knelt down to pray.

12:08 A.M.

BRENT KNEW THAT he was getting weaker, getting closer to caving in to the promptings of the voices. Of course, now, many of the promptings were coming from memory, as the beings continued to, seemingly, get ‘muzzled.’ He could not figure out what was causing them to suddenly stop prodding him. There was neither rhyme nor reason to it.

But the voices were clever. They knew what to say before they were silenced.

This night was no different, especially with what had happened at the school earlier and with his subsequent grounding. He was torqued-off at the world, and he wanted to be able to force some sort of recompense.

He had given ground in his mind to the idea that, if he had additional powers, he could affect Galen at a distance. He could also further manipulate circumstances at home to his liking. He mused that it was about time he effected changes that he wanted in his life.

The rubber was now hitting the road. His anger fueled a growing hostility within his soul. He was faced with another opportunity to say yes to these dark beings, and at the moment, he couldn’t think of a single good reason to say no.

Not once had he ever entertained the notion of a one-on-one conversation with the voices, save for putting up a protective front. But now…

“Brent, think about it. Power, physical gratification, influence, and…” The words were choked off as if someone had pressed a mute button on a remote.

What happened? No, not this time! Brent felt a slight panic, believing his opportunity was about to be lost. “Hey … Hey!” he said in a stiff whisper. “Not now! You can’t leave! Not this time!” But it was too late. For the first time in this hellish relationship he felt robbed.

3:26 A.M.

BRENT LOOKED DOWN and saw his feet on the dark wood of the railroad tie. The darkness consumed everything, but he could still see. How was it possible?

He stood in ‘his spot,’ and once again began looking around at outstretched blackness.

Despair enveloped him. Meaninglessness. Utter meaninglessness.

I deserve this place. I am nothing. My life is nothing.

He stood.

He stood and wept.

Did I have a chance to avoid this? How did I end up here? He let out another always-silent sigh. I belong here. I am here because this is where I belong.

How many times had he thought to call out for help? But in this place, sound did not travel, let alone exist.

It wasn’t a place of evil. It wasn’t a place of anything. It just was. It just existed. Devoid of any presence except his own, it amounted to nothing more than being able to inhale the dark, silent void of outer space.

He looked, again, down to his feet. He realized that his gaze always returned downward. It was the only way that he had any sense of depth perception.

Railroad ties. Blackened old railroad ties. The reason for their existence when nothing else did…? It didn’t matter. Just like nothing else mattered. Though he couldn’t reason out the why, he merely accepted that they were there.

Without warning, a shaft of intense light shot down from out of nowhere, causing him to gasp! It was far off in the distance, but it was staggering.

Brent could hardly breathe. His heart began to race.

He stood there and stared at it, his soul aching for it.

Without any thought to consequences, he took a single step forward, then stopped. He had been in this place for a thousand million years, and never once had it occurred to him to take even a partial stride. But there had never been a reason to do so before now, had there?

He took another step forward toward the light. He looked down. He saw that there was another railroad tie on which to step, and he did so. He looked up again at the shaft of white light.

His steps became methodic: Look down, see a tie, take a step, look at the light. Look down, see a tie, take a step, look at the light.

Over and over he repeated the actions. The stream of illumination was still far distant, and though he could not tell how far, he seemed to be making progress. One thing caught his attention now that he was a little closer to it. The light appeared to be coming down out of the blackness from a hundred, a thousand, a million miles up, and it fell straight down in a narrow beam to a single point, then stopped. It looked as though it came to an end on the same horizontal plane on which he was now walking.

He continued forward, carefully making sure that each step had a railroad tie below it. Each step was greeted with another surge of anticipation, a feeling of importance that was gathering like a storm in his mind.

What does this mean? His psyche screamed for an answer.

Forward he continued, each small step equally a torture and a hope.

He stopped.

What he now saw made no sense. The light was cast down and focused upon ... a flower; a single, long-stemmed flower.

It stood erect in a red clay pot as it rested on the surface of the railroad ties. It looked to be a white daisy. The bloom was maybe another thirty to forty steps away. The beam of light fell only upon that solitary point in the otherwise vast expanse of emptiness.

It’s beautiful! It’s … it’s … beautiful!

Tears filled his eyes. An ache filled his heart. If I can reach it … If I can hold it, I can keep it … take care of it.

A sense of purpose and hope permeated every fiber of his being.

He looked down to take a step onto another railroad tie, but something was different. He stood a moment, unmoving, to look and ponder. The next tie, on which he would need to step, was not pressed up against the one on which he stood. It was a good six inches away, with blackness filling the gap between. Curiosity waning, he took a slightly broader step onto the next tie. He looked up and saw the flower.

He was on the verge of joy!

He looked down, again, to take another step and saw that the next tie was cocked at an angle away from the one on which he now stood, creating an even greater gulf to bridge. He stepped. He stood. He looked up.

His heart was hammering; his pulse was throbbing in his neck.

He looked down.

Fear stabbed at his heart and mind.

Something’s wrong. Something’s going wrong!

He watched as a tie to the right of where he stood seemed to sink into the blackness of whatever it was that the pieces of wood rested upon. Another, this one to his left, did the same.

He felt the tie below his feet begin to shift. Survival instincts kicked in, and he stepped forward onto the next available tie. It appeared, now, that none of the ties ahead of him touched another. It was as if each one had been scattered into its current resting place by a whirlwind.

Another tie ahead of him, and to his left, began to sink into the blackness below. And another did the same a little further ahead. And, then another. It was beginning to happen all over!

He looked forward into the distance and saw his flower, his hope, his purpose, still sitting securely upon its own railroad tie. He shuddered. It cannot go away!

He looked down again and realized an even greater terror. He’d been mistaken. The ties were not sinking. They were falling!

As more ties disappeared, creating greater gaps between the remaining ones, he could see, through those breaches, blackened pieces of lumber falling, spiraling, and tumbling downward.

The railroad ties, they’re resting on … nothing!

His breath caught in his chest. Time was running out. He knew—he just knew—that it was just a matter of time before two things happened: gaps too large to jump over would be created, and eventually—God, no!—the flower would tumble out of his existence forever.

There was no other option but to run, leaping over newly created fissures to gain purchase on other wooden surfaces. He jumped. He landed. He felt the tie falter below his feet and he jumped again.

God, please! Don’t let me lose it! It’s the only thing I have left! It’s my only hope!

Again he jumped, reaching another tie. The ties around him were beginning to fall three and four at a time, tumbling out of sight. He made to jump for another, when it began to fall from view.

Where?! Where?! He kept the shaft of light as his directional goal as he continued to jump, waver, and pitch. The gaps were becoming too big to manage. They’re too far! He leapt for the next closest one, barely making it, and fell to a knee to regain his balance.

He was only a couple of leaps away! He saw that the flower pot rested upon a tie pressed on either side by more of the same. It almost looked like a wood deck made up of maybe ten or twelve giant slats of the thick, dark wood. Good, it’s safe, he thought, and leapt for another hopefully-secure surface. He’d made it again.

Brent knew that he shouldn’t, but he looked behind him anyway. Black railroad ties were falling, dozens at a time, as he scanned the distance. He shifted his focus back to his goal. The tie on which he stood lay in a straight line, jutting toward the next closest tie. He took a running leap and made it safely.

He was going to make it! Just one more jump and he’d be there. He’d be able to touch and hold his precious, precious treasure! He took a deep breath. There would be no running leap this time, just a single, precarious bound across six feet of emptiness.

He jumped.

He was there! He’d made it!

His heart swelled with emotion and his eyes filled with tears as he took a single step toward the brightly-lighted flower. He crouched down. He willed his hand forward to caress the flower’s delicate petals. Then, without warning, the tie on which it rested fell from sight. The flower tumbled downward, quickly enveloped by darkness; its beauty—and his hope—gone forever.

He screamed, with all that was in him, a completely silent Nooooooooooo!