chapter 72

HENRY

“Stupid, stupid rock!”

Henry hurled the rock he had grabbed from the garden at the kitchen wall. A glass on the counter got caught in its path and crashed to the floor. Brae jumped at the sound and knocked into Henry’s legs. Henry smashed his hip into the edge of the table.

“Stupid, stupid dog!”

Brae dropped his head and tail and slunk to the corner of the kitchen. He lay down. Henry felt a cold draft as Mom opened the door. Wind whipped the sky like cream. Henry glanced at Brae, who tucked his tail under his chin, trying to get his huge, lanky body as small as possible. Henry sank to the floor and put his head on his knees. He tried to breathe deeply, but the air vibrated in his chest and felt ragged like a broken fan.

He had let his best friend down. Henry took another broken breath. He thought he had left this in New Orleans, but he was never going to be able to let it go.

“Look at you two. You’re both shaking,” said Mom.

“I am not,” said Henry.

“Well, Brae’s shaking,” said Mom. She got on her knees to pet him.

“No, he’s not either,” said Henry.

“He is.” She buried her face in his neck and began to hum. And all of a sudden, Henry wanted her to come over and hum to him. Without lifting her head from Brae’s fur, Mom said, “You want some hot chocolate?”

“Dogs are allergic to chocolate,” Henry said. “Are you trying to kill him?” It just slipped out, the words all jagged from the blades of his broken fan breath.

Mom stood up and put her hands over her eyes. “I missed you so much, Henry,” she said without looking at him. She clasped her hands in front of her face. “I wasn’t talking to Brae, I was talking to you. You want some hot chocolate? And maybe some eggs?”

Outside, the wind continued to blow hard. It blew in small sideways bursts so it hit the windowpanes. Bang, bang, bang. Bang, bang, bang. Loud, little fists rapping on the glass. Let me in, let me in, let me in. Henry buried his head deeper into his knees. He didn’t want to hear the wind.

“Henry—” Mom sat next to Henry. He felt her hand on the top of his head.

“I thought you were going to make eggs,” he said to the floor.

“It isn’t your fault.”

He took a deep breath. “What isn’t?”

“Look at me,” she said. Henry lifted his head. Mom pushed on his chin so he was staring at her. “It isn’t your fault Wayne died.” She had tears in her eyes.

Henry tried to keep his head still, but his own eyes twitched and his neck felt like it was on a spring, ready to snap back from Mom. He swallowed back his tears. “Mom—” he said.

He was afraid to tell her. But he needed to.

“Yes?” she said.

“I was winning the race. I never won a race against Wayne. I ran past him. I ran way ahead of him.” The words came out of Henry fast.

“Henry.” Mom held the sides of his face with both of her hands, like she knew he was about to snap.

“I wasn’t holding the marble—Wayne was—I messed up the balance—Wayne should have won—” Now Henry took a loud, gulping breath. “I shouldn’t have run ahead of him.”

“Oh, Henry.” Mom brought her hands around Henry’s cheeks, so that they were like blinders. Henry couldn’t see anything except her face. She stared straight at him. “I don’t know why Wayne died that day on the mountain. I don’t. But I do know—with every bone in my body, Henry—that you didn’t cause him to die. It didn’t happen because you ran ahead. It didn’t happen because of you at all. It isn’t your fault.”

He had wanted this, hadn’t he? For Mom to come over and be with him like this? To say this? But Henry couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look her in the eyes for this long. He couldn’t stay here. Stay still.

He snapped his head back and slipped out of Mom’s hands. He scrambled to his feet. “I have to go,” he mumbled. “I have to get out of here—”

“You can’t keep running away—” Mom reached out to Henry as she got to her feet.

But Henry barreled out the kitchen door. Brae followed him. The wind pounded on his back as he ran. You can’t keep running away. You can’t keep running away. You can’t keep running away. Henry still didn’t want to hear the wind.

Or Mom.