LANCE HAD BEEN AT THE WOODSES’ HOME OFF AND ON SINCE Wednesday evening. Once Timmy and the others ran, he’d debated for a moment what to do, fearing what might happen if they caught him. He’d never forgive himself if he simply left and Timmy ended up hurt. But just as he’d resolved to call the police, Molly emerged from the lower-level bedroom. She’d slipped inside during the ruckus and made the call herself.
As it turned out, a neighbor called as well, after the guys caught Timmy and beat him down in the neighbor’s yard. Between then and now, Timmy had pressed charges; Trey had gotten hauled down to the station; Timmy’s parents had come from Nebraska, shocked that drugs were involved; campus police stepped up an ongoing investigation; and somewhere in the midst, Lance felt the divine nudge that he really needed to move in.
And today was moving day. Sort of. Lance had stopped by yesterday to get a house key and clean up the lower level. He planned to drop off a few things this morning before a photo shoot and return later with a team of friends to help with bigger items.
He entered through the door to the lower level, arms filled with clothing, appreciating the living quarters he would have. He had a bedroom, his own bathroom, and a living area with a sectional sofa, a large-screen television, and a desk to set up his computer. He spent a great deal of time at the computer, editing photos and—
Lance stopped on his way to the bedroom. What were Trey and Molly doing down here, sprawled on the sofa asleep? Empty beer bottles, fast food trash, and Doritos chips were on the floor. And was that weed he smelled?
Lance gaped at them. “Are you serious? After everything that happened this week? And I just cleaned down here yesterday.”
Neither moved. Lance dumped his clothes in the bedroom, walked back out, rolled the vacuum near the sofa, and turned it on.
Their heads popped up, Molly’s freshly dyed red.
“What are you doing?” Trey rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Now that I’ve got your attention”—Lance shut it off—“why are you getting high down here?”
Trey let his head fall on the arm of the sofa. “I live here, in case you forgot.”
“Actually,” Lance said, “as of today, the lower level is my own personal space, according to your dad.”
Lance had talked to Mr. Woods after the Timmy ordeal, and he not only was pleased that Lance was moving in, but hoped the extracurricular activity in the home would be curbed, at least somewhat.
“I’m sorry. I thought he told you,” Lance added.
“My dad says a lot of things, mostly lies.”
Lance let that one sail. “Anyway, I asked why you were getting high down here after what went down this week.”
“What about it?” Trey asked.
Molly stared back and forth between them, mascara smudge marks around her eyes.
“I thought you might see it as a wake-up call,” Lance said.
“And what was I supposed to awaken to?”
Lance sighed. “To understand that marijuana isn’t the harmless recreational drug you think it is. There’s a whole world associated with it.”
Trey looked at him. “Who said I thought it was harmless? You’re the one who needs a wake-up call.”
Lance glanced at Molly and back to Trey. “Can we talk privately somewhere?”
“Why? I don’t care if Molly hears.”
“I know you’re in pain, Trey. I hate that you lost your mom and got hit with all the stuff about your dad.” Lance sat down on the sofa. “But you don’t have to make these kinds of choices. There are people who can help you through.”
Trey half laughed. “What, you picked up some pop psychology from somewhere? Nobody can ‘help me through.’ You don’t know the half of my pain.”
“You’re right. I don’t know everything you’re dealing with.” Lance felt he was talking to a wall. “But God knows. He sees you. And I know that you know because you were the one who always carried your Bible around, always memorizing passages of Scripture. Whatever it is, Trey, please give it to God. He cares about you.”
Trey stared downward, and Molly moved closer to him, taking his hand.
“You okay, Trey?” Lance asked.
Trey just stared at a single spot on the carpet, and when he looked up, Lance was surprised to see tears in his eyes.
“I wish it were true, that God cares about me.” He looked at Lance, his eyes hardening. “I used to think it was. But what do you do when you realize it’s not?” He stood, his hand grasping Molly’s. “Huh? What do you do when part of your pain is the realization that God doesn’t care about you?”
He led Molly upstairs, and Lance remained where he stood, replaying Trey’s words.