The spider stood in the dust, staring at the collapsed man on the ground. Jack forced his eyes open, a now common struggle that he wasn’t getting used to. He could see the eight-legged demon staring him down—like the time in the car, like in the cave. This nagging creature following him around at his lowest points. A creature kicking him while he was down.
All seemed lost. He had never felt so alone.
Laura.
Her name floated through his mind. How had he come so far without realizing that he needed her? She was his strength. The one person who would have been by his side if he had just noticed.
We become immune to the sweet smell of beauty when it walks daily in our ordinary lives, but once removed, the pain of its loss is irreplaceable.
How he wanted her there with him. To hold her. To tell her that she meant everything to him. To tell her that he was wrong. That he had invested in all the wrong things. That she deserved better than what she got. But it was too late. She was gone. And so was he.
Jack stared at the spider but did not care anymore. The bug could come over and devour him and he wouldn’t resist. He had no strength in his soul to think of himself as a warrior. A façade he had built up. It was now demolished.
He was nothing. She had been everything.
“I’m sorry . . . Laura,” he whispered.
A shadow passed over his face, temporarily blocking the sun, and a boot came crashing down on the spider. Its eight little legs spasmed at the blow, its body turned to mush. Then, a flood of cold water washed over Jack’s body and all his senses came alive. He gasped in shock.
Strength returned to his arms, and he pushed himself up. He wasn’t dead . . . though he wished he were. No, he was still here, clinging to this mortal coil. He looked up into the sun and saw him, standing over him with an empty bucket, chew dripping down his beard and a grin on his dirty face.
“You done sleeping?”
Boots. He was alive.
“But . . . I . . . killed . . .” Jack struggled to get up.
“Takes more than that, Jack. You think I ain’t been struck before?”
The old man threw down the bucket and walked over to a stool. He sat down and rubbed his side. He looked no worse for wear, like the shovel that Jack had unleashed on him made no effect in dimming his dingy exterior. The man before him made no sense to Jack. He had seen him, dead to rights, flat on the ground.
“But I saw you. You were . . .”
“Naw . . . I’ve gotten it worse than that. You’d be surprised what some people can think up to throw at you.”
“Who are you, Boots?”
The old man hesitated. Thinking, searching. “Doesn’t much matter, does it, Jack? Point is . . . you’re finding out who you are. And by judging it . . . you can swing a shovel, for starters.” Boots laughed at his own joke, the way he always did, and crossed his leg, rocking back and forth on his stool. “Naw . . . I ain’t so much a mystery. I’m what people think of me. At least in their minds. Crazy, mean, useless . . . don’t really much matter though. I am who I am.”
“Is Laura dead?”
Jack waited for the answer. All his reason told him she was. He had convinced himself of that. But his heart in its newfound rhythm sang to him a song of hope.
“She ain’t dead, Jack.”
Elation poured over his body and tears came to his eyes. Jack began to shake, releasing himself to his feelings for her.
“But she ain’t in a good spot either. Her or Molly. Naw . . . the way I see it, they’re going to need you right about now.”
“What do you mean? What are you saying, Boots?”
The old man stood and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. The fleshy mitt felt warm through his shirt. Vibrant. Strengthening.
“I’m sayin’, Jack . . . you think you’re ready to get your life back?”