His shirt was wet from the rain. Also the blood. Kyle Dwyer, Charlie’s older brother, lay in the grass, bleeding from the stomach. The autumn sky cursed and spat.
Charlie crouched down and waved his bare hands in the air above Kyle’s wound. They were mangled hands, casualties of a fireworks accident. The left one had a thumb, pinkie, and ring finger; the right one had only a thumb and pinkie. Yet Charlie moved them with grace—slowly, confidently. The movements seemed practiced, a ritual of sorts. Charlie had done this before. To Alistair, that much was clear.
But what was he doing exactly? Kyle writhed and the blood kept coming, while Charlie swept his hands over and under each other like he was casting a spell. It didn’t appear to be helping.
Alistair couldn’t bear to witness this anymore. Yes, Alistair had shot the gun. Yes, he had caused Kyle’s wound. But rather than help, he chose to run away. He said that it was to call 911, but that wasn’t the only motive. That moment—that image—had potential. To stick. To stay. To never leave. Like the final page of a tragic book.
Because this appeared to be the end of Kyle’s tale.