The InkShares campaign has ended. Sometimes you just gotta call it. It was slated to end February 17, 2026. I pulled the plug February 9, 2026. Don't worry though, the book's not going anywhere, you'll be able to purchase it Easter Sunday (April 5, 2026). Check back then for links! For the time being, you can read the first ten chapters below.

Thanks to everyone that supported the campaign! It means a lot to me, sorry I didn't come through for ya, but thems the breaks I guess. Oh, and shortly after the book is released, I'll be releasing it as a podcast/audio book!

Also, feel free to check out my next big project NOODLES AL DANTE! It's a fun filled, chaotic trip through Dante's Inferno and the nine circles of hell.​​​​​​​
This novel contains discussions on suicide.
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, help is available 24/7.
Call or Text 988
The Lifeline provides free, confidential support to people in emotional distress or crisis.
Trained counselors are ready to listen, offer guidance, and connect you to resources.
988lifeline.org
Support available in English and Spanish.
You are not alone. Reaching out is a sign of strength.
Some places from the book

Ordinary Sun by Tyler Martinez is a haunting, tender novel about grief, estrangement, and the long road back to belonging.
When Dave Sanders learns of his estranged brother’s suicide, he’s tasked with retrieving the ashes and returning to Minden, Nebraska, a town steeped in regret and resentment. What begins as a reluctant errand becomes a reckoning, as Dave is left to sift through the remnants of a fractured, isolated childhood.
Accompanied by the shadow of his dead brother, a hitchhiker, and a survivor of domestic abuse, Dave must decide what it means to live under a tragically ordinary sun.
Told with dry humor, aching honesty, and a deep reverence for the quiet moments that shape us, Ordinary Sun is a story about the weight of silence, the courage to be seen, and the possibility of healing. Even after everything.
For anyone who’s ever wondered if it’s too late to come home.

The following are the first three chapters... And Chapter Six...
Don't forget to find and follow at InkShares. If I can garner 750 pre-orders, not only will it be published, but you will be among the first to receive a copy!
If you pre-order and the InkShares campaign doesn't reach 750 pre-orders, your money will be refunded. In that case, you can contact me and maybe I can still get you a copy. Even if it's just a PDF.
One
Wednesday
June 1, 2016
          It was eight o'three in the morning when the phone began to ring. Dave lay listlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening. It was his landline. He knew exactly who was calling. His mother was the only one who had the number, and it was unlisted. He also knew it would ring twelve times before the answering machine picked up. One minute of shrill, mechanical insistence.
          He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Next to it sat the phone. He lived five minutes from work, which meant he didn't need to get up until eight fifty. This eight o'three bullshit annoyed him to no end, and he refused to pick up. Let the machine get it. She was lucky to get that much.
          He routinely considered having it disconnected altogether.
After the twelfth ring, the machine clicked on.
          "Martha… Just leave a message…" it said, flat and robotic.
          His mother's aged voice spilled through the tinny speaker.
          "Dave," she said. "This is very important." A heavy, frustrated sigh. "I know you're there. I saw your car in your front yard this morning." Another, more frustrated sigh. "Just… call me back."
          Dave doubted it was truly important. She never said important things because she wasn't an important person.
          The clock now read eight o'six.The phone rang again. Another twelve rings. Another minute. Another message.
          "Dave," she said again. There was a shift in her tone. Almost caring. Unrecognizable. He could feel something inside him stiffen.
"It's Max," she said. "Jesus, I didn't want to tell you like this. I thought for sure you'd pick up the second time." Her breath hitched. "Max died this morning. Around four-I need to talk to you. Call me back. Or stop by. You know, I'm only one door away."
         She was. One door away. Dave lived next to her: half by choice, half by necessity. She needed help sometimes. Groceries. Mail. The lawn. He wasn't going to win Son of the Year any time soon, and he knew it. But he showed up. Mostly.
          He hated how often he felt annoyed by her needs. And he hated that he hated it. It was like the moral wires in his brain were crossed. Sometimes he wondered how crossed they really were. It's not like Martha would be winning Mother of the Year any time soon, though she probably thought she would.
          Still, he had a sick addiction to guilt, and his tenuous relationship with Martha was proof of that. He was born and raised Catholic, and even though he hadn't practiced the faith since he was fifteen, the guilt and denial lingered.
Max is dead.
          Dave hadn't seen his brother for the better part of three years. Emphasis on better, as far as he was concerned. Their falling out was ugly. Max tried to patch things up, calls, letters, awkward birthday cards, but Dave was stubborn. A grudge-holding, stubborn ass.
          He looked at the clock again.
          Eight twelve.
          He tried to cry. Tried to force the tears because that's what you do when someone dies, isn't it? When your brother dies. But nothing came.
          Eight fourteen.
          Sleep was out of the question now. And on top of that, he had to piss.
          He rolled out of bed, landing in a shallow grave of laundry and fast food wrappers. He pulled on a pair of jeans that didn't smell too bad and threw on yesterday's shirt that could pass for clean if you didn't look too hard at it.
         After stumbling to the bathroom, he found himself in the kitchen, hunting for breakfast. The cupboards were nearly empty save for three boxes of cereal, each with a sad handful of flakes. He dumped them all into one bowl. The milk in the fridge was half gone and probably on the edge of sour. He sniffed it. Too close to call. Yesterday it might've been okay. Today it was a bridge too far.
         He put the milk back and opened the freezer. A frostbitten quart of yellowed vanilla ice cream sat next to a depressing box of fish sticks he'd bought over a year ago. He grabbed the bucket, set it in the microwave, and set the timer for forty-five seconds. He pulled it out after thirty and called it good.
          Lifting the bucket to pour it over his cereal felt wrong. Felt stupid. He set it down before the first creamy drop could fall.
          "Jesus," he muttered, staring at his pathetic morning meal. Pancakes and an omelet would be nice. "What am I doing?"
          He paused for a moment before picking up the bowl and dumping it into the ice cream.
          "Much better," he said, smiling to no one.
          The silverware drawer had no spoons. The sink had plenty. Dirty, mismatched, and crusted with regret. He often picked up random utensils at garage sales, tossed the old ones, never washing the new. Easier than cleaning. He opened a second drawer. A large wooden spoon stared up at him. It was practically the only thing in there.
          He sat at the dining table, comically large bucket in front of him, comically large spoon in hand.
          "Good God, man," said Max. "You look like shit."
          Dave looked up. Sitting at the other end of the table was his brother. Disheveled hair, shit-eating grin. Somehow still cool.
          "And you look like death," said Dave, raising the spoon to his mouth. Ice cream dripped from it before, during, and after the bite. Thick, cold cream dripped down his chin like the dignity he never had but always wished for.
          Max stared at him.
          "You know I'm dead, right?" he asked.
          "Of course," said Dave with another mouthful. "I wouldn't have said it otherwise. Besides, if you were alive, you'd have made some gross joke about this ice cream running down my chin."
          "Would I?"
          "No," said Dave. "You probably wouldn't. Even though you were the fun one, that kind of joke would've been beneath you."
          "You should talk to Mom," said Max, looking out the sliding glass door of the small dining room.
          Dave looked out. Across the yard, Martha stood behind the chain-link fence, staring blankly. Like a ghost lost to time and tragedy.
          "She was prettier when Dad was alive," said Dave, turning back to his breakfast. "Why would I want to talk to her?"
          "Because she might have something important to say."
          "She did have something important to say," said Dave. "And she said it. I didn't even have to pick up the phone."
          Max straightened up and put his hands on the table.
          "She's our mother," he said. "She birthed you! You sprang from her loins like a stick of butter on a hot day!"
          "Gross," said Dave, dropping the spoon into the bucket.
          "Not above that joke, was I?" said Max. "Seriously though. Talk to her. Ignoring me is one thing. Ignoring her is another."
          "I don't ignore her," said Dave. "I take care of her. Even after everything."
          Max lifted his hands in surrender.
          "Right," he said, conciliation dripping from his voice like ice cream and cereal. "Even after everything."
          Dave looked out the window and waved Martha to him. She walked across the lawn with a frail stride that matched her ghostly appearance. She sat down where Max had been. Max stood quietly behind her as she spoke.
          "Don't you want to know what happened?" she asked.
          "No," said Dave. He did, though. He really did. He just didn't want to admit it. More importantly, he didn't want to admit it to her, or hear it from her.
          "His friend Patrick found him this morning. He was hanging in his garage."
          Dave looked down. Ashamed that he felt so little. He wanted to care. But like the tears he'd tried to cry earlier, the empathy just wasn't there.
          Years of resentment had calcified inside him, like stone beneath his skin. Guarding him. Protecting him from hurt.
          "Patrick said Max made a will," Martha continued. "Finalized it a few weeks ago. Usually wills aren't read right away, but Max had specific instructions in the event of his death."
          Dave looked up, meeting her teary eyes with his own dry ones. It was nice to know at least one of them could pretend to care.
          "Really?" he asked.
          "His last wishes were for you to get him and bring him back here," she said. Her dry, firm voice didn’t match the tears in her eyes.
          "I wouldn't know the first thing about transporting a body," Dave replied. He would use any excuse he could to not do whatever his brother wanted. "I'm not even sure it's legal to move a corpse across state lines without some kind of permit. Or license. Or something."
          "You just need to retrieve his ashes," she said.
Dave's eyes widened. Ashes? What did anyone need him for then?
          "What?" he asked. "He can't just be FedExed or something?" He looked beyond his mother where Max stood with an absurd grin and a large pair of ridiculous finger guns.
          Martha didn't flinch. Her silence said everything. Even the worst son would do this for the worst mother.
          "Fine," Dave sighed, throwing up his hands in exaggerated surrender. "I'll stop by the office today. Let my boss know I'll be gone for a few days."
Two
          The drive to the office was, as Dave expected, short and not sweet. Max spent the entire time singing Believe by the Bravery. It was Max’s favorite so Dave heard it a lot. Dave hated it. Mostly out of spite.
          He pulled into the call center parking lot in his beat-up 1987 Ford Escort. Rust holes in the sides, bumper half-detached, each door a different color. The interior somehow still smelled like dust from 1986. The odometer had given up years ago, but the heater and the A/C worked, and it still ran. For the most part.
          “I can’t believe you still have this thing,” said Max, riding shotgun. “Will this even make it to Minden?”
          “This car is the most reliable thing in my life,” said Dave.
          “Low bar,” replied Max.
          “It’ll make it.”
          They walked into the office at nine eighteen. Heads turned. Anyone not on a call paused to watch Dave stroll past the cubicles like a man who’d just been voted off the island.
          “Well, it’s not the standing ovation I was expecting,” said Max. “Thought you were doing better for yourself.”
          “We couldn’t all profit from people’s peeing habits,” Dave muttered. “I just need to tell my boss I’m gonna be gone for a while. Kinda exciting. I’ve never used bereavement time before.”
          “Pssst,” came a whisper followed by a hand on his shoulder. It was Lacey, the office assistant-slash-float. She covered for Dave more often than HR would like. More often than he would like.
          “Just go to your cubicle,” she whispered. “I clocked you in and told Ryan you were out with… stomach issues.”
          Dave laughed with rare confidence.
          “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got a reason today. All I gotta do is talk to that walking douche nozzle and I’m home free for a week.”
          “DAVE!” boomed a voice from across the office.
          WALKING DOUCHE NOZZLE! Dave thought before raising a hand to wave.
          “RYAN!” Dave shouted back, matching the tone.
          “How about you step into my office?” Ryan called, chipper as ever.
          Dave knew what was coming. Ryan would yell for five or ten minutes, then Dave would drop the dead brother card and walk out with a week of paid grief. That was the plan.
          He stepped into Ryan’s office and shut the door. It was once a janitor closet, and it still faintly smelled of toilet bowl cleaner and urinal cakes. Ryan sat behind a desk that was raised three inches too high. It was flanked by chairs that were lowered just enough to make visitors feel small.
          Ryan was the kind of guy who was probably insufferable in high school, before doubling down in college. Frat bro turned middle manager. Beer gut tucked behind loose pants and an oversized belt buckle. His cologne barely masked the minty stench of old urinal cakes, and his receding hairline suggested that even his hair couldn’t stand the thought of being around him.
          Dave grinned. He was ready.
          “You’re fired,” Ryan said, blurting it out like he’d been holding it in all morning.
          You’re fired. Two words that hit hard every time he heard them, and he’d heard them a lot.
          “What? You can’t fire me.”
          Ryan was nearly jumping with giddy excitement, bouncing in his chair like he was about to pee his pants.
          “Actually, I can,” he said. “You’ve been late ten times this month. Today makes eleven. I could’ve fired you after three, but what can I say? I’m just that nice.”
          “I’m not late today,” Dave said. “I clocked in and went to the bathroom. Trust in gas station hotdogs is almost always misplaced.”
          Ryan put on his best big boy face and leaned into his desk.
          “I watched you come in late,” he said. “I also watched Lacey clock you in. She’ll be in here after you.”
          “I have a reason today,” Dave said. “My brother died this morning. I had to… grieve.” Even Dave didn’t buy the grieving part. But the dead brother thing was true enough, and that came with bereavement time. Sympathy. “I get a week. I’m very… bereaved.”
          “Oh, right,” said Ryan. “Turns out, we only pay that to employees. And since you’ve been fired, you don’t get it. If you’d called in this morning and explained everything, it would’ve been fine. You wouldn’t have been late, and I could’ve fired you next week instead. But you came in. So… here we are.”
          “God damn it, you asshole!” Dave snapped. “I came in because I…” He gritted his teeth and forced the words. “Respect you enough to tell you face-to-face that I need the time off.”
          That was a lie. He came in to watch Ryan squirm. To see the look on his face when he realized he was kicking a man while he was down, even if Dave wasn’t really down.
He was met by security when he walked out of Ryan’s office. As he walked by Lacey he nodded his head in slightly apologetic surrender.
          They walked out of the building together, each carrying a small box of trinkets and baubles, the kind of things that made their cubicles feel like home in a place designed to strip your personality away. Max walked between them.
          “That guy seems like a real tool,” he said.
          “You have no idea,” Dave muttered.
          Lacey looked at him.
          “No idea about what?” she asked.
          Dave turned to her, momentarily startled. He’d almost forgotten she was there.
          “What?” he asked, before realizing she couldn’t hear Max. Of course she couldn’t. Max was Dave’s problem.
          “Sorry,” he said. “I was talking to… myself. Kind of a crazy morning.”
          “Tell me about it,” said Lacey. “I’ve never been fired before.”
          Dave continued to look at her. She must have been… maybe ten years younger than him. She was lacking the life experience he had. Most people were.
          Lacey was mousy and bookish. Quiet. Dave had never shown much interest in her, platonic or otherwise. That didn’t stop her from hovering near him, imagining a friendship that was mutual, even if it wasn’t.
          They took a seat on a small bench near the entrance of the complex.
          Max stood in front of them, arms crossed, like a disappointed father looking down at his children. In Dave’s case, maybe a disappointed mother, but that would imply she cared in the first place.
          “Get fired enough and you get used to it,” he said. “The first five are the hardest. After that they still sting, but not as much.”
          “So what now?” asked Lacey.
          She seemed to think of them as a team, and Dave wasn’t sure he wanted to be part of it.
          He sighed and looked up at Max.
          “Now,” he said, “I go to Minden, Nebraska.”
          “Oh,” replied Lacey. “What’s in Minden?”
          “My brother,” Dave answered. His replies were short, clipped. Sometimes it was intentional, a way to shut down conversations. Sometimes it was reflex. He wasn’t sure which this was.
          “Yeah,” said Lacey. “Family’s good. Especially at a time like this. You two must be close.”
          Max uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on his hips before bending over to look Dave in the eyes.
          “Yeah,” he said. “We must be real close.”
          Dave ignored him.
          “Not really,” he said. “We haven’t talked in… three years.”
          Lacey slumped over a little, deflating like an old balloon.
          “Going for reconciliation?” she asked.
          “He’s dead,” Dave said flatly. “Killed himself this morning… or last night… I don’t know, sometime in the last twenty-four hours.” He let out a frustrated sigh before continuing. “It’s up to me to get his ashes and bring him back so my mom can have a new decoration for the mantle. It’s best if it looks like she cares.”
          “I’m really sorry to hear that,” said Lacey, her voice soft-spoken and sincere. “When my sister died last year, it was soul-crushing.”
          Dave’s heart gave one big pound against his chest. A little wake-up call from inside. He’d known Lacey for five years. Not only was he unaware of her sister’s death, up to this point, he wasn’t even aware she had a sister to begin with.
          “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. And he meant it. Maybe the first true thing he said all day. He was sorry for the loss of her sister. Sorry she’d lost her job, even if she’d acted on her own. Sorry for being a selfish, inattentive person. A bad friend.
          “It’s okay,” she replied. “If you need anyone… if you need help… I could come with you.” She laughed a little. “It’s not like I have anywhere to be now.”
          “Road trip with this little cutie?” Max asked enthusiastically. “C’mon, brother, you can’t turn this down. She’s obviously into you.”
          “Stop it!” Dave snapped, once again forgetting that Lacey couldn’t see or hear his brother.
          He turned to look at her. Her eyes were welling with tears.
          “Not you,” he said, voice softening. “I wasn’t-I wasn’t talking to you. I promise. It’s been a long morning, and it’s going to be a long few days. I’m not myself right now, and I’m taking it out on everyone but myself, and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t freaking help it.”
          He paused and took a breath before continuing.
          “I appreciate the offer. I really do. But if you come with me, it won’t be pleasant. I’ll call you when I get back, though. We can grab a bite to eat. Maybe just… commiserate together.”
Three
          Max sprawled across the back seat of the Escort, head on an old blanket, feet propped against the driver's side window like he owned the place. The car rattled down the highway, suspension groaning with every bump.
           "You know the best thing about being dead?" he asked. "No seatbelts."
          Dave said nothing as the car thumped violently over a dead raccoon.
           "On second thought," Max muttered, "maybe seatbelts aren't such a bad idea. Nobody should have to die twice."
           Eyes forward, Dave still refused to reply, keeping his hands tight on the wheel, all the while gritting his teeth.
          Without warning Max moved to the passenger seat, buckled in.
          "Should've taken Mom's car. Or rented something. This thing's a rolling landfill."
           Dave glanced at the fast food bags, soda bottles, and candy wrappers that littered the floor.
          "I don't like Mom's car," he said. "Rentals are a hassle. This one's fine."
          It was fine. The engine had been rebuilt. Tires were fresh. The odometer was dead, but the car still ran. Consistently flawed, was still consistent.
          Max jumped with excitement and pointed ahead.
           "Hey! Check it out!"
           Dave jerked the wheel, swerving into the empty oncoming lane.
           "Jesus, what?"
           Max grinned and clapped his hands.
           "Hitchhiker!" he said. "Can we pick him up? Please? I'll feed him and pet him and love him and name him! Can we George!? Can we!?"
           "No," Dave said. "I'm not in the mood to be murdered today."
           Max slumped back into his seat.
           "Ya know, statistically, truckers are more likely to be serial killers than hitchhikers."
           "There are more truckers in general," replied Dave. "So naturally-why am I arguing with you?"
           "Because you're lonely and guilt-ridden, my dear brother," Max said in a faux professors voice. "So can we pick him up?"
           "No."
           "C'mon. Either he fills the silence or I do."
           Dave slammed the brakes. The hitchhiker, once ahead, was now behind. Instead of turning around, Dave threw the car in reverse and backed half a mile down the empty road and stopped.
           Max leaned forward, watching the man approach in the rear view mirror.
           "Looks like a real killer," he said, eyeing the guy's suit jacket and wheeled luggage.
           The passenger side window rolled down with arthritic resistance and stopped crookedly half way down.
           "Your car has character," Max said. "I'll give it that."
           "Hello," said the hitchhiker, bright and chipper, with a crisp English accent. "Mind if I tag along?"
           Without looking, Dave popped the trunk.
           "Wouldn't have stopped if I did," he said. "If there's room back there… whatever."
           Leo jogged to his bag to the trunk and stood there for a few seconds. He closed it and returned to the front, where he sat with it awkwardly in his lap.
           Dave wasn't surprised. His trunk was full of random junk. Boxes of silverware, empty containers of motor oil, and an old Super Nintendo that he bought from a pawn shop only to find it was as dead as the lost nostalgia that fueled the purchase.
           Max moved to the middle seat in back. The hitchhiker climbed in front.
           "I'm Leo," he said, shifting his luggage and offering a handshake.
           "Dave," said Dave, shaking it without enthusiasm.
           This guy might have been a mistake. He seemed to be all sunshine and charm.
           "So, where to?" Leo asked.
           Dave put the car in drive. It lurched forward when he hit the gas.
           "Nebraska," he said.
           "What a coincidence!" Leo beamed. "I'm headed that way too. What do you think the chances are we're going to the same place?"
           "I wouldn't count on it," Dave said. "Nobody in their right mind goes to Minden. Willingly."
           Leo pulled out a neatly folded paper from the interior pocket of his jacket and looked it over. "Axtell is where I'm headed. Ever heard of it?"
           "Yeah. It's about ten minutes away from Minden," Dave said. "Not on the way."
           Leo folded the paper back up neatly and placed it in his pocket.
           "Well, beggars can't be choosers," he said. "I'm sure I'll figure out the last stretch."
          "C'mon," Max said. "Take him to Axtell. It's ten minutes. You wasted more time arguing with me and a bucket of ice cream."
           "No," Dave snapped, forgetting again. He glanced at Leo, recalibrating. "I mean-no problem. I'll take you."
           "Brilliant!" Leo said. "The last guy who picked me up wasn't nearly as friendly. Kept talking about trying on my pretty English face."
           "That got dark," Max said.
           Dave stared at Leo.
           "I won't be trying-"
           "I'm messing with you!" Leo laughed. "He was nice. Just didn't appreciate my murder jokes."
           The next two hours were a consistent wave of silence and awkward conversations. An ebb and flow of mundane topics and miscommunications that Leo, and only Leo, found humorous.
           Mostly, Dave ignored his passengers, real and unreal, as they each attempted to pry words out of him.
           "Ask him where he's going," Max said. "Sounds Australian."
           "British," Dave replied, glancing at Leo. "You're British, aren't you?"
           "Somalian, actually."
           Dave shook his head a little.
          "You're Somalian?"
           "Surprised?"
           "A little. You don't sound like a Somalian."
           "Well, have you ever met one?"
           Dave thought for a moment before begrudgingly shaking his head.
           "No…" he said. "But I've seen Captain Phillips, and you don't match the description."
           Leo grinned.
           "Well, you got me there. British. Born in Shrewsbury."
          Dave hated this. The only thing more annoying than his dead brother was this living passenger and his dry sense of humor.
           "What about you?" Leo asked. "Where are you from? I'm guessing Puerto Rico."
          Dave couldn't tell if he was serious.
           "Manchester."
          "No kidding?" Leo's face lit up. "How'd you drop the accent?"
           "What? No. Iowa. Manchester, Iowa."
           "Oh!" Leo laughed. "Yeah, that makes more sense."
          Dave let his hands loosen on the wheel and relaxed, letting his shoulders untense. Sharing was nice. Conversation was nice. If he'd learned anything from Lacey this morning, it was that maybe closeness wasn't the curse he always thought it was.
           He looked at the clock on the car stereo. The stereo had stopped working long ago, but the clock still kept time like a champ. Not even a Rolex was as dependable as that digital timepiece.

           Two forty-eight.

           Dave pulled the car into the small dirt parking lot of Gladice's Ranch, a rundown diner in the rundown town of Tekamah Nebraska.
           "We still have about four hours left before we get to Minden," he said. "I haven't eaten all day, and this place is as good a place as any. My treat."
           The parking lot was half empty, and the neon Open sign in the front window was half on, flickering pen erratically.
           "Treating your new friend to fine American cuisine, I see," Max said, trailing behind Dave and Leo.
           Dave ignored Max's comment. He was supposed to he the pessimist, not his dead brother.
           The outside smelled like the inside and Dave took a small amount of comfort in that. He couldn't explain why.
           "The thing about places like this," Dave began, "is that they look like crap on the outside, but they have great food on the-"
          They stepped inside. A group of retirees sat in the corner playing cards. Half the lights were burnt out. The woman behind the counter looked like a walking cigarette; frazzled gray hair, wiry and wild.
           "-inside," Dave finished.
           Leo's eyes widened.
           "This place," he said slowly, "is AMAZING!"
           "Not so sure that's the word I'd use," said Max.
          The woman stepped out from behind the counter and approached. Up close, she had the figure of a sixty-year-old, the wrinkles of a seventy-year-old, and the voice of a fifty-year-old Brooklyn man fresh off his fifth Cuban cigar of the day.
          "Table or booth?" she rasped, handing them two menus.
          Dave almost asked for a third.
          Before he could answer, Leo was already seated in a booth, looking around in awe at the failing Americana atmosphere.
          "I guess booth," he said, taking the menus.
          Dave slid into the booth across from Leo and started scanning the menu. The waitress appeared almost out of nowhere, like a haunting vision of what the future held if you weren't careful.
          "What'll it be?" she rasped, her voice sounded like it was struggling through a throat full of gravel.
           Leo perked up and took notice.
          "What's good?" he asked, his charm ineffective against this charmless server.
           She moved her jaw in response, slowly, mechanically, like a cow chewing cud.
          "Lunch specials," she said. "Meatloaf or a club sandwich. Both come with potato soup."
          Leo looked down at the menu and pointed.
          "What about this? I'll go with the double half-pound cheeseburger and a Coke."
          "What do ya want on it, sweetheart?" the waitress asked.
          Leo squinted at her coffee-stained name tag.
          "Well, I'm glad you asked, Gladice," he turned back to the menu. "It says I can add bacon, ham, lettuce, tomato… and a side of fries or onion rings."
          "Yeah," Gladice said flatly, her voice dragging.
          "That's what I'll have then."
          She stared at him like she was caught in some sort of practical joke before turning to Dave, as if she expected him to rein in his friend.
          Dave shrugged and said nothing.
          Max, seated beside him, gave Leo a once-over.
          "There's no way this guy can handle that."
          Gladice, still looking at Dave raised an eyebrow.
          "And for you?"
           Dave handed her the menu he didn't bother opening.
          "I'll have a Coke… and whatever passes for meatloaf these days. Skip the soup."
          She nodded once, making notes in her little pad of paper.
          "Your heart attack," she said to Leo. "Your funeral," she added to Dave.
          They waited in silence, watching out the window as a small monster truck roared into the parking lot. Big. Black. Loud. It spewed smoke from the exhaust thick enough to seep through the diner's poorly sealed windows. A young woman in an oversized hoodie and baggy shorts climbed out of the passenger side. A scruffy man in black cargo shorts and a stained wife-beater jumped from the driver's seat.
          Dave and Leo watched as the couple began shouting at each other. Their words were muffled by the glass and the buzz of dying fluorescent lights. The man grabbed the woman's arm, yanking her back as she tried to head toward the diner.
          "You should probably do something," Max said.
          Dave didn't respond. His dead brother was right. But he wasn't going to move.
           "I think we should do something," Leo said. His voice was calm, but the concern was real.
           "Like what?" Dave asked. "I'm not a fighter."
           He pulled out his phone and dialed 9-1, thumb hovering over the last digit waiting for the moment he would need to finish dialing.
           By the time he looked up, Leo was already sliding out of the booth.
           "I guess he's got his own ideas," said Max.
          Outside, Leo approached the man calmly, confidently. The man let go of the young woman and the conversation seemed peaceful. For a moment, it looked like Leo might actually deescalate the situation.

           That moment didn't last.

          The man swung, catching Leo across the jaw and knocking him to the ground. He shouted something unintelligible before climbing back into the truck. They watched as the diesel fueled beast peeled out of the lot, louder and angrier than when it arrived.
          The young woman helped Leo to his feet, all the while the patrons of the diner remained still. Outside, the dust and exhaust lingered.
          Dave flinched as Gladice appeared. Again. Seemingly out of nowhere.
          "You should really wear a bell or something," he said.
          She ignored the comment and dropped the plates onto the half-empty booth.
          "Tell Prince Charming out there his meal's on the house," she said, glancing out the window at Leo, who was rubbing his jaw and talking to the young woman. Freshly abandoned on the cusp of civilization. "You can leave me a tip and thank me for it."
          "Gladice, you're earning every dollar today," Dave replied.
          After she left, Dave stared at his meatloaf. A small patty of pressed meat with brown gravy drizzled over it. He poked at it lightly, half expecting it to sprout legs and run off.
          Leo slid back into the booth, and the young woman took a seat beside him. Max sat next to Dave.
          "Maggie here's been left behind," Leo said, eyeing the ridiculous pile of food in front of him. He turned to her. "Help yourself to whatever looks good."
           She smiled timidly and plucked a French fry from Leo's plate.
           "Thanks," she said softly, then looked across the table. "You must be Dave."
           "Yep," Dave replied. "I'm Dave."
          He might have been surprised by this, but so far today, he'd eaten ice cream for breakfast, been trailed by his dead brother, fired, and befriended a hitchhiker.
          A survivor of domestic abuse being abandoned at a rundown diner seemed like the most realistic thing that could have happened today. Or at the very least, it wasn't out of his new ordinary.
          "I'm Maggie," the young woman said.
          "I gathered that," replied Dave. He returned to his plate for more gentle prodding of what he hoped, but doubted, was a freshly cooked meal.
          "I told Maggie she could join us on our adventure," Leo added.
          Dave looked at her.
           "I don't really have anywhere to go," said Maggie. "Or any way to get wherever I'd be going."
          Despite the timid tone and the fact that she'd just been left in the middle of nowhere, there was a bubbly air about her. Her bright orange fingernail polish would have been instantly endearing if not for her chipped and uneven nails. Dave wondered if she was okay, or just putting on a front.
          He might have asked if she was okay, but his concern for people today was already record breaking. Any more and he might run the risk of becoming a good person.
          He watched as she took another fry from Leo and dragged it through the gravy on Dave's untouched meatloaf.
          "And just like that," Max said, upbeat and impossibly enthusiastic, "there were three."
Four
          Maggie sat up front while Leo slouched behind her in the back seat, staring stupidly at the boring Nebraska landscape as it panned across the window. Max sat behind Dave. Quiet, for a change.
          The silence in the car had evolved into something new: tense, awkward, and heavy. It was bad enough that Max hadn’t left Dave’s side all day. Worse when they picked up a stranger hellbent on lightening the mood. But now there was another stranger. She was pretty, freewheeling, and just as aimless as Dave.
          The difference was, she seemed confident in her place, not just in the world, but in the car. Life was presumably not great for the young woman tangled up with a guy that would drop her on the side of the road, but she seemed resilient.
          Maggie looked at Dave, who was trying his hardest to not show interest in anything but himself.
          “Long day, huh?” she asked.
          “You could say that,” Dave muttered, eyes locked on the road. The flat horizon stayed where it was. Where it always would be.
          “I know the feeling,” she said softly.
           Dave glanced at her. She looked sad, and he wondered if it was somehow his fault.
          “It’s not because of you, you arrogant prick,” Max said from the back seat. Naturally, the first thing out of his mouth in an hour was an insult.
          Dave knew he was right. It was selfish to think he was the cause of her sadness, but not selfish to think he was a contributing factor. It was his car, his road trip, his atmosphere. And it wasn’t particularly warm or welcoming.
          He glanced at his passenger.
          “Sorry,” he said.
          She glanced back at him. A tear streamed down her cheek, and they both pretended it wasn’t there.
          “It’s okay,” she sniffed. “Not like you ever beat the shit out of me… or left me in the middle of nowhere.”
          Dave had no words.
          “I’m sorry,” Maggie said, wiping her face. “My problems shouldn’t be your problems too. But here we are anyway.”
          The silence returned. Dave checked the rearview mirror. Leo was asleep in the back seat, head tilted impossibly far back, mouth hanging open, a strand of drool forming at the corner.
          Max watched him intently.
          “Sleeping like a little baby,” he whispered joyously.
          Dave turned back to the front.
          “Trust me,” he said, trying to sound comforting. “Your problems are the least of my problems.”
          He sat in those words a second too long.
          “I mean-”
          “I know what you mean,” Maggie said. Her voice was soft but it was genuine. “You’re traveling in a shitty car with two strangers. You obviously have a lot on your mind.”
          Dave glanced in the mirror again. Max was snuggled up with Leo, whispering lullabies.
          He adjusted the mirror.
          “You have no idea,” he said.
          “So you’re going to some place called Minden?” Maggie asked. “What’s there for you?”
          Heartache, Dave thought. Anger. Jealousy.
          “A dead brother,” he said, again letting the silence linger longer than it should have.
          “Wow,” Maggie said, turning to the window. “Sorry… My problems really should be the least of your problems. You can let me off wherever.”
          The air in the car was thick with grief and guilt. It smelled like mid ’80s dust. A scent he couldn’t escape. A scent he didn’t want to escape.
          “No worries,” Dave said reassuringly. “I wouldn’t leave you behind.” He checked the mirror. “That guy, on the other hand.”
          They both smiled. Then laughed. A much-needed, much-welcomed moment of levity.
          Dave assumed Maggie was laughing at the idea of a well-dressed Englishman stranded in a podunk Nebraska town. Dave chuckled at the thought of Max annoyingly haunting someone else. Anyone else.
          The air between them was warm and understanding, and once again Dave loosened his grip on the wheel and let his shoulders relax.
          As the car rolled past the sign reading Welcome to Minden – The Christmas City, the only one of the travelers still awake was Dave. Even Max seemed to have slept through the last leg of the trip. Death may have been the big sleep, but apparently it was still very tiring.
          He drove quietly through the sleepy Christmas City. The swimming pool was winding down for the day with only a few kids left splashing in the shallow end. Chautauqua Park still stood, its playground dotted with young parents and toddlers. The stage on the south end, once a place of wonder and endless imagination, now looked tired and worn. Kelsey’s house across the street was an ugly dark green instead of its once pretty blue.
          Gone was Ben Franklin’s, the little general store where they used to buy Jolly Ranchers. In its place: a laundry company. Patrick’s house still stood a few doors down from the library, its front porch in slight disrepair. The library itself sat firmly planted on the corner, almost completely unchanged from its ’90s presence.
          “Remember this?” asked Max from the back seat. “Different than it was, but somehow untouched at the same time.”
          Dave did remember. He remembered everything, from that first day of that first summer to that last day of that last summer.
          Leo and Maggie woke to the sound of the Escort’s brakes grinding and squealing as it rolled to a gradual stop in front of Max’s house.
          The large two-story home on a corner lot seemed to shrink the other houses in the neighborhood.
          “This is where your brother lived?” Leo asked, eyes wide with childish wonder.
          “A little gaudy,” said Maggie.
          “I don’t know about this one,” said Max.
          “But pretty awesome,” she added.
          “Never mind, she’s cool,” Max said.
          “Very gaudy,” Dave agreed.
          An old VW Beetle rattled around the corner and sputtered to a stop behind the Escort.
          “And I thought the Escort was bad,” said Max.
          A portly man with disheveled hair stepped out, adjusting his glasses with one hand and pulling a large briefcase from the passenger seat with the other.
          “You made it,” he said. The exhaustion in his voice matched the half-tucked shirt he wore. “I wasn’t sure you would show up.”
          “This,” Dave said, “is Patrick.”
          The man ran his free hand through his hair, nervously trying to tame a few stray curls as he looked at Dave and his unexpected companions.
          “Hello,” Patrick said.
          He clumsily stepped forward with open arms not realizing his briefcase wasn’t properly latched. As he embraced Dave it opened and papers spilled out in a cascade of incompetence.
          “This is embarrassing,” he said.
          Dave didn’t return the hug but agreed.
          ​​​​​​​“Very.”
Five
Saturday
June 3, 1995
          "Why can't we take Dad's car?" Dave whined as he threw his bags into the trunk of his mom's Honda Civic Shuttle.
          "Shut up," said Max, shoving his younger brother out of the way.
           "Mom!" shouted Dave. "Max just told me t-"
           "Well maybe you should," Martha shot back as she locked the front door of their small house. "We have a long drive. Let's just go."  
           Max claimed the front seat with his Game Boy. The faint sounds of Tetris leaked through his small headphones.
           Dave sat behind him with his well‑worn copy of Rosemary's Baby. Heavy reading for a ten‑year‑old, and he hadn't understood much of it when he first read it over Christmas break. He was sure he'd understand it better the second time around.
          Martha slid her favorite cassette into the player and turned up the volume, probably hoping to stifle conversation. Dave appreciated that idea. Deluxe by Better Than Ezra began to filter through the car stereo. It seemed like the music was always louder in the back seat then up front.
          Max wasn't a fan of Better Than Ezra, but with headphones on, he had no say. Dave was indifferent. He liked a few tracks: Good, of course, everyone did. Killer Inside appealed to him, and This Time of Year always made him think of a romanticized youth he hadn't lived yet, but could. Maybe.
          The tape played through several times before Martha ejected it, but Good was inescapable, drifting in again from the pop stations that changed with every new portion of the trek. The drive from Manchester, Iowa, to Minden Nebraska was long and arduous. Martha allowed only one stop: a small diner in Tekamah, Nebraska, about halfway.
          Dave sat alone on one side of a booth while Max and Martha sat across from him.
          "I'm sorry, Dave," Martha said. "I shouldn't have told you to shut up this morning. That wasn't right. I'm not myself right now, and I took it out on you. That's no excuse. I need to be better."
          Dave didn't reply. He only looked down at the menu, not reading it.
          "So," Martha sighed, "what do you boys want for lunch?"
          Dave wiped a single tear, still staring at the menu. Still not reading it.
          A pretty, young waitress arrived at their table. Her golden hair fell over her shoulders and her warm smile even managed to pierce through Dave's spiteful shell.
          "What can I get for ya today?" she asked, her voice soft and welcoming.
          Max ordered a double half‑pound cheeseburger, stacked with ham, bacon, tomato, lettuce, and a side of fries.
          Dave ordered a small, uninspired slab of meatloaf. Martha chose a basket of chicken strips. They each had a Coke, since Pepsi wasn't on the menu.
          The next four hours were excruciating for Max, who learned that eating a pound of meat topped with more meat was a bad idea for a thirteen‑year‑old. Dave could see it on his face and the way he folded into himself, clenching his stomach. Dave discovered that spitefully ordering a small meal punished only himself. Martha, meanwhile, seemed comfortable and oblivious to her children's pain and discomfort.
          Max eventually fell asleep in the front seat after the four AA batteries died in his Game Boy. Dave drifted off as Minnie Castevet delivered a cool chocolate mouse to Rosemary.
          The boys remained asleep even as the Shuttle rolled through Minden, bumping over potholes and scraping its bumper on the dips in the streets.
          "Wake up, kiddos," Martha said brightly.
          Dave, groggy and annoyed, looked out the window. Grandma's house, he thought. Somehow his inner voice sounded less excited than his outer one.
          Max perked up and smiled.
          "Finally!" He swung the car door open, accidentally digging its corner into the yard. It stuck there, but he didn't care.
          Martha had to put the car in drive and inch forward to get it unstuck.
          Grandma Agnes emerged from the front door of her stately house with a warm smile, her flowing dark brown hair stirring in the breeze. Without a word, she opened her arms wide, just in time for Max to wrap himself around her.
          Dave climbed out more slowly, heading straight to the hatchback to retrieve his bags.

          Upstairs, as the boys unpacked in their small bedroom at the top of the stairs, Dave could hear voices drifting through the vent. Little echoes not meant for him, which made listening that much more tempting.
          "He doesn't want to be here, does he?" he heard his grandmother ask. "He misses his father, and you're insisting he miss his mother when all he wants is a little normalcy and comfort."
          "He's coping," Martha replied. Her tone was sharp and Dave knew it all too well. "We all are. It's been… difficult."
          "And this is going to make things easier?"
          "I don’t know, but I hope it does."
          "Do they even know you're going home tonight?"
          His grandmother's question, "Do they even know you're going home tonight?" sent shockwaves through him.
          Dave looked at Max, who seemed oblivious as he spread a stack of comic books across his bed.
          "Did you hear that?" he asked.
          "What?" Max replied.
          Dave didn't answer. He ran from the room each foot propelled by a deep urgency, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.
          "You're leaving us here?!" he cried.
          Martha turned, tears welling. She knelt, meeting his eyes, a storm of sadness and guilt.
          "You can't leave us!" Dave shouted. The tears came freely now, his voice raw with anger and unbelievable sadness.
          "I have to," Martha whispered. It almost sounded like she would cry, but even Dave with his ten year old mind doubted she could even if she wanted to.
          She pulled him close and he sobbed into her shoulder, refusing to return her embrace. He hated her in that moment. His father-his namesake, David-was barely cold. His suicide, only five months ago, had left a wound that refused to close. And now his mother was abandoning him too.
          Later, Dave sat under a tree in the yard while his grandmother stood at the front door. He watched Max give their mother a bittersweet hug before she climbed back into the car.
          Dave wiped an angry tear away as the engine started. He watched as the car disappeared beneath the orange evening sky. And he listened until the sound of her abandonment faded into the distance.
Six
Monday
June 5, 1995
          Max and Dave spent the rest of the weekend settling in. Max read comics, played Game Boy, and watched movies on the basic cable channels they didn’t have at home. Dave sulked quietly in their bedroom reading Rosemary’s Baby, writing in an old notebook he found on the bookshelf, and staring out the window at the neighborhood below.
          Monday morning rolled around, and their grandmother insisted they venture out. They sat at the kitchen table, large syrup-soaked pancakes steaming in front of them. Agnes slid a paper across the table to Max. It had directions to the library from her house, then to the grocery store from the library, and back to her house from the store.
          Their grandfather, Roger, laughed at her overly cautious note-taking.
          “It’s Minden, Agnes,” he said. “All they need to know is where the courthouse is.” He looked at the boys. Dave wondered how he could see them through his ruggedly squinty eyes and shaggy mane that fell over them.
          Something about him reminded Dave of that guy from The Quick and the Dead. Sam something. The one western his father liked. A movie Martha disapproved of letting children watch.
          “Look outside. Look up a little,” he continued. “You’ll see the courthouse. You can make it from there to here and here to there. That’s all you need to know.”
          It was all they needed to know. The Minden courthouse loomed over the town, visible from just about everywhere. Like a giant stone North Star.
          Roger stood and ruffled each boy’s hair with his large, calloused hands.
          “I’ll be back for lunch,” he said, shifting his attention to Agnes.
          “Want anything in particular?” she asked.
          “Whatever these gentlemen want is fine with me,” he said. He winked down at them and whispered, “She makes excellent sloppy joes.”
          Max and Dave left shortly after their grandfather. They looked up a little, just as instructed, and saw the courthouse. As they walked down the street, they listened to the birds. Their songs of chirps and tweets clashing with Dave on an almost personal level.
          Despite his sullenness, Dave admired the small-town houses as he walked beside Max. Every house was different and unique, but none felt out of place.
          They noticed a boy about their age playing on the front porch of one of the larger homes. He had a tub of Legos on one side and a pile of green and tan army men on the other.
          “Hey,” said Max, still standing at the end of the long sidewalk that led to the house.
          The boy perked up and looked at the brothers and nervously ran his fingers through his unruly curls.
          “Stay right there!” he yelled. “I’m not allowed to have company when my parents aren’t home.”
          Max seemed to take this as an invitation and stepped forward. Dave grabbed Max’s shirt by the collar and pulled him back to his side.
          Max shrugged off his brother’s hand but remained where he was.
          “Watcha makin’?” Max yelled from across the yard.
          The boy remained silent.
          “Surely you can talk to us,” Max said. “You’re not breaking any rules, are ya? You’re on the porch, we’re clear out here on the public sidewalk. Like… talkin’ on the phone or somethin’.”
          The boy looked at them. Specifically Max first, then Dave, then back to Max.
          “Yyyyeah, I guess,” the boy said. “I’m Patrick.”
          “I’m Max,” Max replied. He nudged Dave and muttered, “Introduce yourself, dingus.”
          “I’m dingu-Dave,” Dave said quietly.
          “So whatcha uilding’?” Max asked again. “Whatever it is, it looks pretty rad.”
          Patrick let out a small, excited gasp.
          “Yeah,” he said. “It-it is… Gonna be… rad when it’s all done. It’s gonna be a fortress for my army men.”
          “I’m pretty good at making fortresses,” said Max. “And Dave here’s pretty good at… setting up army men. Want help?”
          “Nah,” said Patrick. “Still no company without my parents.”
          Max looked at his watch, a small rectangle with a number pad and the answer to a random math problem on the display. He hit all clear a few times to get back to the time.
Ten twelve.
          “When do they get home?” Max asked.
          Dave looked at him with mild annoyance. He knew what his brother was angling at. Subtlety wasn’t Max’s strong suit, but then again, he didn’t think Max believed in Bing subtle anyway.
          “They usually come home for lunch around noon,” said Patrick.
          “So we could help ya build for a little bit and be gone before they get home!” Max started marching up the sidewalk. Dave stayed where he was.
          “No!” yelled Patrick. “That’s okay, maybe another-”
          It was too late. Max had a handful of Legos and was already hard at work on an addition to the army men’s fortress.
          “Yeah,” Patrick said. “I guess just a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. I mean, it’s not like you’re inside the house or anything.”
          Dave begrudgingly took a seat on the porch swing and sat quietly as a few minutes turned into forty-five. The conversation spanned a variety of topics: favorite dog breeds, what if zombie cats existed, how long would it take for a chicken to walk a mile?.
          Max had perfect responses for everything. He always did. That was part of what made him so much more likeable than Dave. Beagles, because of the Beagle Boys in DuckTales. If a zombie cat caught a non-zombie bird, that bird would become a zombie, and before you knew it, the world would be over. And it would take a chicken one hour to walk a mile because… why wouldn’t it?
          “Have you ever played Streets of Rage 3?” Patrick asked.
          “No,” said Max. “We don’t have a Sega. All we have is an old Nintendo… Not even a Super.”
          “It’s awesome!” said Patrick. “Maybe later, when my parents are home, you can come over and we can play. I have it hooked up to a TV in my room.”
          “You have a TV in your room?” Max asked. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
          Patrick quickly jumped up, placing himself between Max and the front door.
          “I’d better not,” he said. “My parents would kill me.”
          “You said they come home around noon, right?” asked Max.
          Patrick nodded.
          Max checked his watch.
          “It’s only ten forty-five. We go in, beat up some bad guys for a few minutes, and we’ll be out before your parents get home for lunch. We gotta be back at our grandma’s house by noon anyway.”
          Patrick hesitated, then opened the door.
          The house was dimly lit, even with the lights on, and it was big. A large open living room greeted them, with a couch against a large picture window overlooking the porch. Two recliners faced a console TV in the corner.
          Patrick’s room was upstairs. To reach the stairway, they passed through a spacious dining room.
          “Your house is big,” said Dave. If he were left here alone, he’d probably spend his time on the porch too. He didn’t even like being in his small house in Manchester alone.
          “Yeah,” said Patrick. “I guess. C’mon, follow me.”
          He led them through a cramped hallway on the second floor. It wasn’t as big as it looked from the outside. Funny how sometimes big things can actually be small.
          Patrick’s room was messy. A bunk bed stood in the corner, the top piled with stuffed animals and random toys. A small TV sat on a desk with a Sega and two controllers waiting to be held.
          Dave sat on the bottom bunk and watched as Patrick and Max fought through the streets. Max played as Axel Stone, Patrick as Skate. A few minutes turned into thirty, and thirty into forty-five. The streets were definitely filled with rage. Dave, meanwhile, was filled with nervous boredom.
          Patrick snapped out of his pixelated fury at the sound of a car door outside. He threw the controller to the floor and ran to the window, just in time to see his mother walking up the sidewalk. Before Dave could figure out what was happening, they all heard the sound of the front door open.
          “CRUD!” he whispered loudly. “My mom’s home! What time is it?”
          Max checked his watch.
          “Eleven thirty-four.”
          Patric began running his fingers through his hair again.
          “Oh man! I’m sooooo dead!”
          “Relax,” said Max. “It’s all good, man. You said her lunch break is an hour, right?”
          “Right,” Patrick replied. He was nearly hyperventilating.
          “You go downstairs, keep her company. We hang out up here until she goes back to work.”
          “Yeah,” said Patrick, calming down, catching his breath.
          “What about Grandma?” Dave asked. “She’ll be expecting us home in like twenty minutes.”
          “She’ll be fine,” Max said. “She’ll worry for a few minutes, and Grandpa will calm her down.” He lowered his voice and squinted his eyes. “‘Boys will be boys. I’m sure they’re just chattin’ up a cute girl or somethin’.’”
          Dave actually relaxed a little. Max was right. He was always right. And that impression of Grandpa was surprisingly accurate.
          Max had a way with people, he could read them, understand them, even when he barely knew them. He probably had Patrick figured out after only a few words. Everything would work out just fine.
          Dave was so deep in thought he didn’t notice when Patrick left the room. The game was still running, the volume turned low. Dave crept to the door and peeked out, trying to catch whatever he could of the conversation downstairs.
          He could hear most of Patrick’s side of the conversation as he spoke nervously and loudly.
          “MOM!” he yelled. “You’re home early!”
          “Yeah,” she was quiet and Dave could only make out a few words. “…  Got the day… a little early… spend it with my favorite son.”
          Dave later found out Patrick was actually an only child.
          “SO YOU’RE HOME ALL DAY NOW?” he yelled louder.
          Dave shuffled back into the bedroom just in time to see Max halfway out the window.
          “What are you doing!?” he whispered.
          Max looked at him for a moment before answering.
          “I’m leaving. What does it look like I’m doing?”
          “You’re going to break your back!” said Dave. “You know how high up we are?”
          “Relax,” said Max. “There’s one of those vine-climby things out this window.”
          “A trellis,” Dave corrected.
          “Yeah, that,” said Max. “We can just climb down.”
          Dave watched Max disappear through the window and nervously fidget before running to see if he made it down safely. He imagined looking out to see Max lying broken, maybe even dead, in the yard.
          By the time he got there Max was lying in the yard, but picking himself up and dusting himself off. Dave watched as he casually walked back to the sidewalk where a girl, probably about their age, was standing with a confused look on her face. They appeared to be having a conversation, but they were too far away for him to hear any of it.
          Dave leaned out the window nervously, he needed to get Max’s attention, needed to get out of this mess his brother got him into.
Seven
          Dave and Max stood side by side in the kitchen talking to Patrick. Maggie and Leo were left to their own devices in the oversized living room of Max’s oversized house.
          “So,” said Dave looking at the forever fidgety Patrick. “Let’s sign some papers and collect some ashes or whatever.”
          Patrick looked at him with those familiar crinkly eyes of worry.
          “Well, about that,” he said, “there’s just a bit more you need to do here.”
          “A bit more?”
          “Yeah,” continued Patrick. “A bit. Max had very specific instructions regarding the estate and the inheritance.”
          “For God’s sake, Patrick, just spit it out,” said Dave. “We aren’t kids anymore; you can talk like an adult can’t you? I mean, you are a lawyer… an estate lawyer. But aren’t you used to this kind of thing?”
          “It’s easier when it’s strangers,” Patrick said. His voice was slightly sullen, almost to the point it sounded like tears weren’t far behind. “Max wasn’t a stranger… I mean, I know most of my clients… But I don’t know them like I knew Max.”
          “Damn,” said Max. “Take it easy. Your loss and his loss aren’t the same thing.”
          Dave hated to admit it, but Max was right. He was being rude and he was being mean. He lost a brother that felt like a stranger and Patrick lost a friend that felt like a brother.
          He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down before looking up at Patrick.
          “Sorry,” he said, resetting his tone. “What do I need to do?”
          Patrick set his briefcase on the table and opened it, the papers still in disarray after the earlier spill. He shuffled through them until he found an old scratchy four by six photo and slid it across the table.
          It was the entire gang on the stage at Chautauqua Park. Everyone looked comfortable, doing what they did. Just enjoying the moment. Everyone but Dave.
          Kelsey had her arm draped over his shoulder smiling emphatically. Max was giving Chad bunny ears. Chad was flipping off the camera. Patrick was looking at Chad with shock. Brendan stood near the back smiling like a dope, and Marcy sat off to the side reading a book.
          Dave stared at it. He remembered that day. He remembered the heartache. He remembered declaring to himself that he wouldn’t be back the next summer. And he wasn’t. He stayed away every summer and every day in between. Today was his first time back in nearly eighteen years.
          He felt a deep sadness welling up in him. It mushroomed in his stomach and spread to his lungs before resting in his heart. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t longing for a lost childhood. It was something else. Something he didn’t want to confront and thought he never would.
          He flipped the photo over. In scrawled, faded ink, it read: August 4, 1998. Wilhelm and Wilma
          “Okay,” he said quietly, placing it back on the table. “What’s this have to do with anything?”
          Patrick pulled out a large three-ring binder and set it in front of him. He rolled his eyes at the dramatic sound of it landing with a loud thud.
          “What’s this?” asked Dave.
          “Your homework,” replied Patrick. “In order to get the inheritance, Max wants-wanted… You to take inventory of everything in the house. Top to bottom. He has-had… Everything listed in this binder.”
          “And if I don’t take inventory I don’t-”
          “Get anything,” Patrick cut in.
          “And Martha?”
          “Martha?” Patrick asked. “Oh, your mom. What about her?”
          “If I don’t want my portion of the inheritance,” said Dave, “can I skip this and-”
          “Oh,” said Patrick. He drew a breath and sat down. “No. You either do this and you both get your share, or you skip this and neither of you get it.”
          “Fine,” said Dave standing up. “We’ve been getting along just fine without it for this long, we’ll be just fine without it longer. And when she finally goes, I’ll be even… Finer.”
          “Actually,” said Patrick. “You haven’t… Been getting along just fine.”
          Dave glared across the table. For a moment he could see that chubby kid with the curly hair that once played Legos on his front porch.
          “Excuse me?”
          “Max was sending your mother money. A monthly allowance of sorts,” said Patrick, nervously tapping his fingers on the table.
          Dave bit his lip and leaned back in his chair.
          “For how long?”
          “Eight years,” replied Patrick, there was a hitch in his throat and Dave was unsure if it sadness, or fearful nerves. Knowing who he was talking to, he assumed it was both.
          “Okay,” replied Dave. “We’ll figure something out. We don’t need this.”
          “Yeah, Max thought you might say that,” said Patrick. “If you don’t do this, not only do you and your mother lose the           inheritance… but… everything, his house, his fortune… Everything. Is donated to Minden.”
          Dave looked at the binder and sat up. He flipped it open. It was full, and it was heavy, each page laminated and slick.
          “Also,” said Patrick, “one more thing.”
          Dave looked up at him, his eyes narrowed. There’s no way one more thing meant anything good.
          “You need to find something,” continued Patrick with a hard, nervous swallow. “Special for everyone… The old gang.”
          “Find something special?” asked Dave.
          “Yeah,” said Patrick. He cleared his throat, “something meaningful to everyone. You decide what that special something is… And you can’t tell them it’s because Max made you.”
          Dave looked down at the binder and flipped through the pages like one of the old JCPenney catalogs his grandma used to keep on the coffee table. What would Kelsey like? What would Marcy want? And Brendan? What would any of his old friends want?
          “Hey,” said Max leaning over Dave’s shoulder. “I see what you’re doing. That’s not a shopping guide. Go talk to everyone. For once, do the right thing.”
          Dave ignored his brother and kept flipping. Listening to him was getting exhausting and maybe if he ignored him long enough, he would get the picture and leave him alone.
          “Right,” he said. “So I need to get Max’s ashes, take inventory, and find gifts for everyone?” He looked up at Patrick. “Anything else?”
          Patrick relaxed a little. His shoulders fell, his hands rested steadily on the table.
          “That about sums it up,” he said.
          “Can I have help?” Dave asked, turning in his chair to see Maggie and Leo in the other room. They were sitting on the floor playing checkers. “Where did they get checkers?” he muttered.
          Patrick leaned across the table.
          “Yeah,” he said lowering his voice. “About them… who are they?”
          Dave turned back to him.
          “Friends,” he said.
          “Oh,” Patrick replied. He leaned back, “I wasn’t aware you-”
          “Had friends?” Dave interrupted. “Me either. I just met ’em today.”
          Patrick looked at Dave and flinched a little.
          “Met them today?” he asked.
          “Yeah,” Dave said. He liked the idea of his flippant demeanor bothering Patrick.
          “…And you brought them to your dead brother’s house?” Patrick asked.
          “Well, you put it that way, it sounds weird,” said Dave.
          “I think if you put it any way, it sounds weird.”
          “So can they help me? Or am I solo on this?”
          Patrick looked down at the binder for a moment. He let out a small disapproving snort. He reached for it and tapped it firmly as he thought about the question.
          “I guess they can help,” he said. “Seems a little inappropriate. Disrespectful. But Max never said anything about relying on the kindness of stra-you didn’t kidnap these people, did you?”
          Dave stared at him. It was the stare of someone with a lifetime of experience lying. He let the silence linger just long enough to add to Patrick’s discomfort.
          “Of course not,” he said. “I did not kidnap them. Nor am I in the process of kidnapping them.”
          “Yeah. Of course not,” Patrick said quickly.
          Dave smiled.
          Patrick left a little more upset than when he arrived and that was okay with Dave who casually took a seat in the living room. The couch was so plush he thought he was going to drown in his brother’s overcompensated comfort.
          His new friends had grown tired of checkers and were packing it up. He watched as Leo carefully placed the board back on the shelf it must have come from.
          “You two are welcome to stay here,” Dave said. “Stay as long as you want… well, until I’m done here anyway. There’s plenty of places to sleep. I’m sure he’s got several bedrooms. More than he needed no doubt.”
          “That’s really nice,” said Maggie.
          “It is,” Leo added. “Thank you.”
          “It is nice,” said Max. “Look at you growing a heart.”
          “You have to help me with something, though,” Dave added.
          “Oh,” Max replied. “Right… I take it back. I think your heart might actually be shrinking.”
          Maggie perked up a little.
          “Sounds like an adventure,” she said. “Are we robbing a bank?”
          Leo raised a hand lightly and looked at Maggie, then to Dave.
          ​​​​​​​“I’ve been known to be helpful from time to time,” he said. “Though I’m not comfortable with bank robberies.”
Eight
          Leo and Maggie were happy to help with the inventory. Eager to get started even, but Dave insisted they wait until tomorrow. They reluctantly agreed.
          Instead, they ventured out in search of food. A night on the town, as Maggie put it. Not that this town of roughly three thousand had any sort of nightlife to experience.
          Alone in the empty house. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his dead brother. Dave wandered the halls. Something about it was creepy and haunting. Each room was full of memories, reminders that Max moved on in life in a way that Dave never could. So many stories died with the dead. So many pictures left incomplete.
          He made a cursory glance through every room until he came to Max’s. It was large, and it looked Victorian. Dark red curtains covered the windows. An absurd four-post bed sat in the middle. A stylistically out-of-place plasma TV was mounted to the far wall.
          On the bed was a large box. It stared at him. It called him. If Dave believed in such things, he might have even thought he could feel it pulling him toward it with some divine grace. He didn’t believe in such things.
          “What was it mom used to say about dad?” asked Max. “Something about-”
          Dave looked at Max.
          “I don’t know,” Dave interrupted. “She never had much to say to me.”
          Dave opened the box slowly and looked inside. A collection of cassettes, neatly arranged. Resting on top was a Zune with a set of wired earbuds. Beneath the Zune, a small folded piece of paper. Beside the box sat a stack of composition notebooks.
          “What’s this?” Dave asked quietly, unfolding the paper as though he were Indiana Jones discovering some fragile treasure.
          “Dad left some things behind,” said Max. His tone wasn’t his usual fun-loving one. “He kept audio journals. A lot of them. Some from before we were born. Some from after. Right up to…”
          He picked up a cassette. June 6, 1984.
          “How long did you have these?” he asked, taking a seat on the bed.
          “I found them a few weeks after he died,” Max replied.
          ​​​​​​​He folded the paper back up and gently set it down beside him on the bed.
          “A few weeks?” Dave’s voice cracked. “And you never told me. Why?”
          Max didn’t respond.
          “I missed him so much,” Dave said. “Probably more than you. Probably more than Mom.”
          He tilted the box over and looked inside. He reached in and knocked the tapes out of order. He picked up another. January 1, 1995.
          “You had a lifetime of extra memories with him,” Dave said. He was loud now, thankful the house was empty, but he probably wouldn’t have cared otherwise.
          “All I had were fading moments,” he continued. “Half of which I don’t even know if they were real or just… fantasy. I would’ve listened to these so much. I fought so hard. I struggled so hard! To make sense of everything. To hold onto anything. You dragged me through every summer not to noticing. Not caring. When you could’ve given me something to hold on to?”
          The tears came easy now. Not for the loss of his brother, he didn’t deserve them. These were for the loss of a father he could have known. A father who, maybe in death, could have helped in life. He couldn’t explain why or how, but somehow this felt like he was losing his father for a second time. Like he had a second life, parallel to the one he lived, one Dave would have mourned if only he knew that he could.
          “I never stopped thinking about him,” Dave said quietly. His head in his hands. His hands wet with tears. “I never stopped… wondering. Blaming myself.”
          Max knelt before him, just like their mother had done that first day in Minden. Dave looked up.
          “Are there answers here?” he asked. “Was I the reason?”
          Max stared at him with those soft eyes that drew everyone in with even the slightest of glances. Youthful and compassionate, even when they were lying.
          “You have to listen,” he said calmly. “All there is and will ever be is in that box.”
          “It’s not fair,” Dave whispered. “You had no right. You could’ve helped me. But instead, you selfishly left me out.”
          Max said nothing.
          Dave slid the box aside and looked at the stack of notebooks.
          “Those are mine,” said Max.
          Dave picked one up and thumbed through the pages without taking in any details. He threw the book against the wall.
          “I already know you,” he said. “There’s no mystery to the late great MAX! THERE’S NOTHING TO KNOW!”
Nine
Thursday
June 2, 2016
          Dave woke up in the four-post bed, still wearing his clothes from the day before, and stared blankly at the ceiling. His cell phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was his mother. It was always his mother.
          Sometimes he thought about just turning it to silent, but it felt better to actively ignore her. The memories flooding back were painful, and he blamed her for most of them.
          Max lay beside him, staring at the ceiling.
          “Remember laying in Grandma’s backyard?” he asked. “Looking up at the sky and watching the clouds?”
          Dave kept his eyes on the ceiling. The phone stopped buzzing.
          “Remember when you found a bunch of old recordings of Dad and kept them from me?”
          Dave rolled out of bed, landing hard on the floor. Somehow, he longed for the mess of his own room. He made his way downstairs and found Leo flipping through the binder while Maggie flipped pancakes like a pro. The aroma of fresh coffee mingled with warm vanilla, taking Dave back to a simpler time. A time before his father’s death.
          He searched the cupboards until he found a mug.
          “Breakfast?” Maggie asked, chipper and surprisingly bubbly considering she’d been left in nowhere Nebraska less than twenty-four hours ago. Dave, perpetually miserable, couldn’t imagine that kind of optimism, though on occasion he could fake it.
          “No,” Dave said flatly, pouring himself a cup. “I’m going out for breakfast today. Probably lunch too.”
          He took a seat at the table and watched Leo for a moment.
          “You two have a good night on the town?” he asked, sipping his drink.
          Maggie and Leo exchanged a glance and giggled.
          “Not bad for a couple of stray cats,” Leo said.
          Maggie burst out laughing.
          Dave was unamused and refused to give their joke any extra attention.
          “Right,” he said. Sitting down was a mistake. It invited conversation and whatever other social norms he would rather avoid. He stood up and placed his cup in the sink. “I’m heading out. You two do… whatever.”
          Maggie meowed and Leo chuckled.
          “Of course,” he said, stifling his laughter. “Inventory.”
          Dave left the house with the Zune in his pocket and earbuds in place. The crisp summer’s air filled his lungs with a strange sadness that bordered on nostalgia but never quite got there.
          The sound of his father’s voice filled his ears. A long-lost memory only Max knew about. He wondered if he should share it with his mother. She’d had more time with his father than anyone. In Dave’s mind she was the least deserving.
          “I know you’re angry,” said Max. “But it was pretty rad of your big brother to convert all those tapes into MP3s and load ‘em onto a Zune, wasn’t it? Also, what’s cooler than a Zune?”
          Dave looked down at the device. It was chunky and heavy.
          “Almost anything,” he said. “And you know what would be rad? If my big brother didn’t hide the recordings in the first place.”
          He pressed play. For the first time in more than twenty-one years, he heard the sound of his father’s voice. It stopped him in his tracks. He gasped. A flourish of panic in his lungs sucked the air out of them. He stumbled back and sat down on the curb in front of Max’s house and listened.

          It’s Friday October 22, 1976… I think… Honestly, I’m not sure what the date is. I’m on my way home. Spent the week failing… kind of sucked… Started this shit job Monday and I’m already ready to quit.
          I was actually ready to quit Monday morning. Martha wanted me to stick with it for a paycheck… This factory gig pays way more than anything I’ve ever had… I’ll give it that much. Martha probably assumes when I get that first check I’ll change my tune. Maybe I will… I doubt it though.
          This job sucks. I’m the slowest person on the line so everyone’s constantly waiting on me. I lose track of what I’m doing so people are always yelling at me for forgetting shit… I’m always flustered and overwhelmed and… Jesus… What am I even doing?

          David stopped talking but kept recording. The sound of his old truck rattling down the highway was strangely comforting. Dave turned up the volume and closed his eyes.
          In that moment, he was in the passenger seat. Riding home with his dad before he was even born. They rode in silence for the next five minutes. Dave had never felt closer to his father. He had never felt farther from his mother.
          When the ride was over, Dave opened his eyes. He wasn’t ready for whatever the rest of the day held, but he stood up, and took that first begrudging step toward reconnecting with his past anyway.


Ten
          Dave sat quietly in a small corner booth at the diner on the square. The smell of cheeseburgers and old grease traps that filled the air was offset with the sweet aroma of fresh baked pie. The square was the central hub of Minden, its Business District, though there weren’t many businesses. A florist, a hole-in-the-wall bakery, too many banks, a post office, a senior center, and of course the diner that was once called J.J’s City Café, but was now-who really cared?
          In the center of the square sat the courthouse, a near-perfect cube of large bricks. He thought of his grandfather on that first day. His gruff voice in his ears.
"It’s Minden, Agnes. All they need to know is where the courthouse is. Look outside. Look up a little. You’ll see the courthouse. You can make it from there to here, and here to there. That’s all you need to know."
          He smiled at the thought, and for a moment, he regretted not coming back for either of his grandparents’ funerals. When they died thirteen years ago, he wasn’t in a place of reconciliation. He still wasn’t eighteen years after his last summer, and days after his brother died. But here he was.
          Through the haze of nostalgia a soft voice emerged to ground him firmly in the present.
          “As I live and breath.”
          Dave didn’t need to look up from the menu to know who it was. Kelsey’s voice was practically unchanged since the last time he saw her, her arm slung over his shoulder as he scowled at the camera.
          He looked up. She had the same gorgeous smile, the same pretty green eyes, and even though her blonde hair was pulled into a librarian’s bun, it somehow managed to shine under the dull fluorescents of the café.
          “As you live and breathe,” Dave said. “You work here?”
          “Better,” Kelsey replied. “I own the place.”
          “Not sure that’s better,” said Dave.
          Kelsey smiled and winked.
          “You haven’t changed a bit.”
          He gave a subtle nod and placed his menu on the table.
          “So, what’s good around here?”
          “Grilled cheese,” said Kelsey. “Tomato soup.”
          “Fancy,” said Dave. “I’ll take it… and a conversation, if you have one to spare.”
          Kelsey smiled that warm smile that could melt the thickest ice on the coldest day.
          “For you,” she said, “I have all the conversations.”
          A small silence lingered between them. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t tense. Dave couldn’t tell if it was pity or sympathy, or once-forgotten humility gently warming him from the inside out.
          “I’ll be back with your order and we can have a chat,” said Kelsey, and with that, she was off. Dave watched her walk away. There was still resentment in his heart over August 4, 1998. He didn’t realize until now how much it had softened since then though.
          “She’s right,” said Max, sitting across from him. “You haven’t changed a bit. Most people have grown in the space between. Not you though. You’re largely unchanged; for better or worse.”
          “Yeah,” Dave agreed. “for worse.”
          Kelsey returned and set a small plastic basket in front of Dave. His grilled cheese looked picturesque, resting on a bed of French fries. The bowl of tomato soup beside it sent up a thin trail of steam. Kelsey had the same in front of her, and between them sat a slice of lemon meringue pie.
          Dave looked at his plate, unsure what to say. It didn’t matter-Kelsey started the conversation.
          “Why didn’t you come back?” she asked.
          Dave remained silent. He didn’t have an answer. Not one she wanted to hear. Besides, she already knew.
          “We all missed you,” Kelsey continued. “I did, anyway. Still do. Marcy does too.”
          “Yeah,” Dave replied. “You all had Max though. So…”
          The silence returned, but this time it was different. It wasn’t warm or bittersweet. Dave’s childhood resentment sat just below the surface, and it would take all his strength to keep it at bay.
          Kelsey let the silence sit while Dave searched for the proper emotion. Maybe to suppress the wrong one.
          “Minden,” Dave continued, trying hard to keep his cracking voice intact, “just… wasn’t my home.”
          Kelsey reached across the table and took Dave’s hand.
          “I know,” she said quietly.
          Dave felt like a child as he sat there, staring at Kelsey’s hand on his.
          “I don’t think you do,” he said, pulling his hand away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the group photo Patrick had given him. He set it down on the table and flipped it so Kelsey could see it right side up.
          “Wilhelm and Wilma,” Kelsey said, sliding it closer to get a better look. “God, look how young we were.” She looked up at Dave. “You’ve hardly aged at all.”
          Her finger traced lightly over the photo, over Dave’s face specifically.
          “You remember the first time we met?” she asked softly.
          Dave took the photo back, giving it one more glance before placing it back into his pocket.
          “How could I forget?” he said. “You saved me.”
↑Back to Top