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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 two chapters... And Chapter Six...
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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.
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."
"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?
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.”
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 front door open.
“CRUD!” he whispered loudly. “My mom’s home! What time is it?”
Max checked his watch.
“Eleven thirty-four.”
Max 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.