Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1: Dill

2: Lydia

3: Dill

4: Travis

5: Dill

6: Lydia

7: Dill

8: Travis

9: Dill

10: Lydia

11: Dill

12: Travis

13: Dill

14: Lydia

15: Dill

16: Travis

17: Dill

18: Lydia

19: Dill

20: Travis

21: Dill

22: Lydia

23: Dill

24: Travis

25: Dill

26: Lydia

27: Dill

28: Travis

29: Dill

30: Lydia

31: Dill

32: Lydia

33: Dill

34: Lydia

35: Dill

36: Lydia

37: Dill

38: Lydia

39: Dill

40: Lydia

41: Dill

42: Lydia

43: Dill

44: Lydia

45: Dill

46: Lydia

47: Dill

48: Lydia

49: Dill

50: Lydia

51: Dill

52: Lydia

53: Dill

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For Tennessee Luke Zentner,

my beautiful boy.

My heart.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN: 9781448188246
Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by
Andersen Press Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
www.andersenpress.co.uk

Published in the United States by Crown Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s, a division of Penguin Random House, New York

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

The right of Jeff Zentner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Text copyright © Jeff Zentner, 2016

ISBN 978 1 78344 381 9

THERE WERE THINGS Dillard Wayne Early Jr. dreaded more than the start of school at Forrestville High. Not many, but a few. Thinking about the future was one of them. Dill didn’t enjoy doing that. He didn’t much care for talking about religion with his mother. That never left him feeling happy or saved. He loathed the flash of recognition that usually passed across people’s faces when they learned his name. That rarely resulted in a conversation he enjoyed.

And he really didn’t enjoy visiting his father, Pastor Dillard Early Sr., at Riverbend Prison. His trip to Nashville that day wasn’t to visit his father, but he still had a nagging sense of unformed dread and he didn’t know why. It might have been because school was starting the next day, but this felt different somehow than in years past.

It would have been worse except for the excitement of seeing Lydia. The worst days spent with her were better than the best days spent without her.

Dill stopped strumming his guitar, leaned forward, and wrote in the dollar-store composition book open on the floor in front of him. The decrepit window air conditioner wheezed, losing the battle against the mugginess of his living room.

The thudding of a wasp at the window caught his attention over the laboring of the air conditioner. He rose from the ripped sofa and walked to the window, which he jimmied until it screeched open.

Dill swatted the wasp toward the crack. “You don’t want to stay in here,” he murmured. “This house is no place to die. Go on. Get.”

It alighted on the sill, considered the house one more time, and flew free. Dill shut the window, almost having to hang from it to close it all the way.

His mother walked in wearing her motel maid’s uniform. She looked tired. She always did, which made her seem much older than her thirty-five years. “What were you doing with the window open and the AC on? Electricity’s not free.”

Dill turned. “Wasp.”

“Why you all dressed to leave? You going somewhere?”

“Nashville.” Please don’t ask the question I know you’re going to ask.

“Visiting your father?” She sounded both hopeful and accusatory.

“No.” Dill looked away.

His mother stepped toward him and sought his eyes. “Why not?”

Dill avoided her glare. “Because. That’s not why we’re going.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me. Lydia. Travis. Same as always.”

She put a hand on her hip. “Why you going, then?”

“School clothes.”

“Your clothes are fine.”

“No they’re not. They’re getting too small.” Dill lifted his skinny arms, his T-shirt exposing his lean stomach.

“With what money?” His mother’s brow—already more lined than most women’s her age—furrowed.

“Just my tips from helping people to their cars with their groceries.”

“Free trip to Nashville. You should visit your father.”

You better go visit your father or else, you mean. Dill set his jaw and looked at her. “I don’t want to. I hate it there.”

She folded her arms. “It’s not meant to be fun. That’s why it’s prison. Think he enjoys it?”

Probably more than I enjoy it. Dill shrugged and gazed back out the window. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t ask for much, Dillard. It would make me happy. And it would make him happy.”

Dill sighed and said nothing. You ask for plenty without ever actually asking for it.

“You owe him. You’re the only one with enough free time.”

She would hang it over his head. If he didn’t visit, she would make it hurt worse for longer than if he gave in. The dread in Dill’s stomach intensified. “Maybe. If we have time.”

As his mother was about to try to drag a firmer commitment from him, a bestickered Toyota Prius zoomed up his road and screeched to a stop in front of his house with a honk. Thank you, God.

“I gotta go,” Dill said. “Have a good day at work.” He hugged his mother goodbye.

“Dillard—”

But he was out the door before she had the chance. He felt burdened as he stepped into the bright summer morning, shielding his eyes against the sun. The humidity mounted an assault even at nine-twenty in the morning—like a hot, wet towel wrapped around his face. He glanced at the peeling white Calvary Baptist Church up the street from his house. He squinted to read the sign out of habit. NO JESUS, NO PEACE. KNOW JESUS, KNOW PEACE.

What if you know Jesus but have no peace? Does that mean the sign is wrong, or does that mean you don’t know Jesus quite as well as you think? Dill hadn’t been raised to consider either a particularly good outcome.

He opened the car door and got in. The frigid air conditioning made his pores shrink.

“Hey, Lydia.”

She grabbed a worn copy of The Secret History off the passenger seat before Dill sat on it, and tossed it in the backseat. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“Of course I’m not. But I have to pretend. Social contractual obligations and whatnot.”

You could set your clock by Lydia’s being twenty minutes late. And it was no use trying to trick her by telling her to meet you at a time twenty minutes before you really wanted to meet. That only made her forty minutes late. She had a sixth sense.

Lydia leaned over and hugged Dill. “You’re already sweaty and it’s still morning. Boys are so gross.”

The black frames of her glasses creaked against his cheekbone. Her tousled smoky-blue hair—the color of a faded November sky streaked with clouds—smelled like honey, fig, and vetiver. He breathed it in. It made his head swim in a pleasant way. She had dressed for Nashville in a vintage sleeveless red gingham blouse with black high-waisted denim shorts and vintage cowboy boots. He loved the way she dressed—every twist and turn, and there were many.

Dill buckled his seat belt the instant before her acceleration pressed him into his seat. “Sorry. I don’t have access to AC that makes August feel like December.” He sometimes went days without feeling air as cool as in Lydia’s car except for when he opened the refrigerator.

She reached out and turned the air conditioning down a couple of clicks. “I think my car should fight global warming in every possible way.”

Dill angled one of the vents toward his face. “You ever think about how weird it is that Earth is hurtling through the black vacuum of space, where it’s like a thousand below zero, and meanwhile we’re down here sweating?”

“I often think about how weird it is that Earth is hurtling through the black vacuum of space and meanwhile you’re down here being a total weirdo.”

“So, where are we going in Nashville? Opry Mills Mall or something?”

Lydia glared at him and looked back at the road. She extended her hand toward him, still looking forward. “Excuse me, I thought we’d been best friends since ninth grade, but apparently we’ve never even met. Lydia Blankenship. You are?”

Dill took advantage of the opportunity to take her hand. “Dillard Early. Maybe you’ve heard of my father by the same name.”

It had thoroughly scandalized Forrestville, Tennessee, when Pastor Early of the Church of Christ’s Disciples with Signs of Belief went to the state penitentiary—and not for the reasons anyone expected. Everyone assumed he’d get in trouble someday for the twenty-seven or so rattlesnakes and copperheads his congregants passed around each Sunday. No one knew with certainty what law they were breaking, but it seemed unlawful somehow. And the Tennessee Department of Wildlife did take custody of the snakes after his arrest. Or people thought perhaps he’d run afoul of the law by inducing his flock to drink diluted battery acid and strychnine, another favored worship activity. But no, he went to Riverbend Prison for a different sort of poison: possession of more than one hundred images depicting a minor engaged in sexual activity.

Lydia tilted her head and squinted. “Dillard Early, huh? The name rings a bell. Anyway, yes, we’re driving an hour and a half to Nashville to go to Opry Mills Mall and buy you the same sweatshop garbage that Tyson Reed, Logan Walker, Hunter Henry, their intolerable girlfriends, and all of their horrible friends will also be wearing on the first day of senior year.”

“I ask a simple question—”

She raised a finger. “A stupid question.”

“A stupid question.”

“Thank you.”

Dill’s eyes fell on Lydia’s hands at the steering wheel. They were slender, with long, graceful fingers; vermilion-colored nails; and lots of rings. The rest of her wasn’t ungraceful but her fingers were affirmatively and aggressively graceful. He relished watching her drive. And type. And do everything she did with her hands.

“Did you call Travis to tell him you were running late?”

“Did I call you to tell you I was running late?” She took a turn fast, squealing her tires.

“No.”

“Think it’ll come as a surprise to him that I’m running late?”

“Nope.”

The August air was a steamy haze. Dill could already hear the bugs, whatever they were called. The ones that made a pulsing, rattling drone on a sweltering morning, signaling that the day would only grow hotter. Not cicadas, he didn’t think. Rattlebugs. That seemed as good a name as any.

“What am I working with today?” Lydia asked. Dill gave her a blank stare. She held up her hand and rubbed her fingers together. “Come on, buddy, keep up here.”

“Oh. Fifty bucks. Can you work with that?”

She snorted. “Of course I can work with that.”

“Okay, but no dressing me weird.”

Lydia extended her hand to him again—more forcefully, as though karate chopping a board. “No, but seriously. Have we met? What was your name again?”

Dill grasped her hand again. Any excuse. “You’re in a mood today.”

“I’m in the mood to receive a little credit. Not much. Don’t spoil me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“In the last two years of school shopping, have I ever made you look ridiculous?”

“No. I mean, I still caught hell for stuff, but I’m sure that would’ve happened no matter what I wore.”

“It would. Because we go to school with people who wouldn’t recognize great style if it bit them right on their ass. I have a vision for you, planted in rustic Americana. Western shirts with pearl snaps. Denim. Classic, masculine, iconic lines. While everyone else at Forrestville High tries desperately to appear as though they don’t live in Forrestville, we’ll embrace and own your rural Southernness, continuing in the vein of 1970s Townes Van Zandt meets Whiskeytown-era Ryan Adams.”

“You’ve planned this.” Dill savored the idea of Lydia thinking about him. Even if only as a glorified mannequin.

“Would you expect less?”

Dill breathed in the fragrance of her car. Vanilla car freshener mixed with french fries, jasmine-orange-ginger lotion, and heated makeup. They were almost to Travis’s house. He lived close to Dill. They stopped at an intersection, and Lydia took a selfie with her cell phone and handed it to Dill.

“Get me from your angle.”

“You sure? Your fans might start thinking you have friends.”

“Hardy har. Do it and let me worry about that.”

A couple of blocks later, they pulled up to the Bohannon house. It was white and rundown with a weathered tin roof and wood stacked on the front porch. Travis’s father perspired in the gravel driveway, changing out the spark plugs on his pickup that had the name of the family business, Bohannon Lumber, stenciled on the side. He cast Dill and Lydia a briny glare, cupped his hand to his mouth, and yelled, “Travis, you got company,” saving Lydia the trouble of honking.

“Pappy Bohannon looks to be in a bit of a mood himself,” Lydia said.

“To hear Travis tell it, Pappy Bohannon is in a permanent mood. It’s called being a giant asshole, and it’s incurable.”

A moment or two passed before Travis came loping outside. Ambling, perhaps. Whatever bears do. All six feet, six inches, and 250 pounds of him. His shaggy, curly red hair and patchy red teenager beard were wet from the shower. He wore his signature black work boots, black Wranglers, and baggy black dress shirt buttoned all the way up. Around his neck, he wore a necklace with a chintzy pewter dragon gripping a purple crystal ball—a memento from some Renaissance festival. He always wore it. He carried a dog-eared paperback from the Bloodfall series, something else he was seldom without.

Halfway to the car, he stopped, raised a finger, and spun and ran back to the house, almost tripping over his feet. Lydia hunched over, her hands on the wheel, watching him.

“Oh no. The staff,” she murmured. “He forgot the staff.”

Dill groaned and did a facepalm. “Yep. The staff.”

“The oaken staff,” Lydia said in a grandiose, medieval voice.

“The magic staff of kings and lords and wizards and … elves or whatever.”

Travis returned, clutching his staff, symbols and faces carved on it with clumsy hands. His father glanced up with a pained expression, shook his head, and resumed work. Travis opened the car door.

“Hey, guys.”

“The staff? Really?” Lydia said.

“I bring it on journeys. ’Sides, what if we need it to protect ourselves? Nashville is dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Lydia said, “but it’s not dangerous because of all the staff-wielding brigands. They have guns now. Gun beats staff in gun-staff-scissors.”

“I highly doubt we’ll get in a staff fight in Nashville,” Dill said.

“I like it. It makes me feel good to have it.”

Lydia rolled her eyes and put the car into gear. “Bless your heart. Okay, boys. Let’s do this. The last time we ever go school shopping together, thank the sweet Lord.”

And with that pronouncement, Dill realized that the dread in his stomach wouldn’t be going away any time soon. Maybe never. The final indignity? He doubted he’d even get a good song out of it.

THE NASHVILLE SKYLINE loomed in the distance. Lydia liked Nashville. Vanderbilt was on her college list. Not high on the list, but there. Thinking about colleges put her in a good mood, as did being in a big city. All in all, she felt a lot happier than she had the day before the start of any school year in her life. She could only imagine what she’d be feeling the day before next school year—freshman year of college.

As they entered the outskirts of Nashville, Dill stared out the window. Lydia had given him her camera and assigned him to be expedition photographer, but he forgot to take pictures. He had his normal faraway affect and distinct air of melancholy. Today seemed different somehow, though. Lydia knew that visits to Nashville were a bittersweet affair for him because of his father, and she’d consciously tried to pick a route that would differ from the one he took to visit the prison. She spent a fair amount of time on Google Maps plotting, but to no avail. There were only so many routes from Forrestville to Nashville.

Maybe Dill was looking at the homes they passed. Houses as cramped and dilapidated as his didn’t seem to exist even in the parts of Nashville with cramped and dilapidated houses, at least along the path they took. Maybe he was thinking about the music that flowed in the city’s veins. Or maybe something else entirely occupied his mind. That was always a possibility with him.

“Hey,” she said gently.

He started and turned. “Hey what?”

“Nothing. Just hey. You’re being so quiet.”

“Don’t have much to say today. Thinking.”

They crossed over the river into East Nashville and drove past coffee shops and restaurants until they pulled up to a restored Craftsman-style bungalow. A hand-painted sign out front said ATTIC. Lydia parked. Travis reached for his staff.

Lydia raised a finger in warning. “Do not.”

They walked in, but not before she had Dill take a picture of her standing next to the sign, and another of her leaning on the wide porch.

The shop smelled of old leather, wool, and denim. An air conditioner purred, pumping out cool air with a whiff of clean mildew. Fleetwood Mac played over hidden speakers. The wood floor creaked under them. A pretty, bohemian-looking strawberry blonde in her twenties sat behind a glass counter display full of handmade jewelry, staring intently at her laptop screen. She looked up as they approached.

“Okay, I love your look. How hot are you, seriously?” she said to Lydia.

Lydia curtsied. “Why thank you, madam shopkeeper. How hot are you, seriously?”

Lydia gave Dill a look that said Try to get this kind of treatment at stupid Opry Mills Mall.

“Are you guys looking for anything in particular today?”

Lydia grabbed Dill by the arm and pushed him in front of her.

“Clothes. Duds. Britches. That will fit this guy and make women swoon across Tennessee’s Cumberland Plateau region.”

Dill averted his eyes. “Let’s maybe focus on the fitting part for now, Lydia,” he said through clenched teeth.

The woman gasped. “My parents almost named me Lydia. They went with April.”

“Lead the way, Miss April,” Lydia said. “I see you have an excellent and well-curated selection.”

Dill went in and out of the dressing room while Travis sat on a creaky wooden chair and read, lost to the world. Lydia was in her element, seldom happier than when playing dress-up with Dill, her own little fashion charity project.

Lydia handed Dill another shirt. “We need some clothes-trying-on-montage music—‘Let’s Hear It for the Boy’ or something. And at one point you come out of the dressing room wearing a gorilla costume or something, and I shake my head immediately.”

Dill pulled on the shirt, buttoned it up, and studied himself in the mirror. “You watch way too many movies from the eighties.”

Eventually they had a stack of shirts, jeans, a denim jacket lined with sheepskin, and a pair of boots.

“I love vintage shopping with you, Dill. You have the body of a seventies rock star. Everything looks good on you.” Mental note: in college, any boyfriends should have Dill’s body. It’s a fun body to dress. Actually, it would also probably be a fun body to—well … anyway, it’s a fun body to dress.

“I can’t afford all this,” Dill said under his breath.

Lydia patted his cheek. “Calm down.”

April rang them up. Thirty dollars for three shirts. Thirty dollars for the jacket. Forty dollars for the boots. Twenty dollars for two pairs of jeans. One hundred twenty dollars total.

Lydia leaned on the counter. “Okay, April. Here’s the deal. I’d love it if you’d sell us all this for fifty bucks, and I’m prepared to make it worth your while.”

April gave Lydia a sympathetic head tilt. “Aw, sweetie. I wish I could. Tell you what. I’ll do one hundred, the friend price, because I wish we were best friends.”

Lydia leaned over the counter and motioned at the laptop. “May I?”

“Sure.”

Lydia typed Dollywould into the browser and waited for it to load. She turned the computer toward April.

“Ever been here?”

April squinted at the screen. “Yeah … looks familiar. I’m pretty sure I have. Was there an article on here about the best vintage stores in Tennessee?”

“Yep.”

April scrolled through. “Okay, yeah, I’ve been here before. That was a great article.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait, you wrote that?”

“That and every other article on Dollywould. I run it.”

April’s jaw dropped slightly. “No way. Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“What are you—maybe eighteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“Where were you when I was in high school?”

“Forrestville, Tennessee, wishing I were you. How do you advertise?”

“Word of mouth, mostly. I don’t have much of a marketing budget. I’ll run the occasional ad in the Nashville Scene when I’ve had a good month.”

“How about I prominently feature your store on Dolly-would in exchange for you cutting us a break on this?”

April drummed her fingers on the countertop and thought for a second. “I don’t know.”

Lydia whipped out her phone and typed while April mulled. She set her phone on the counter, stepped back, and folded her arms with a broad grin. Her phone buzzed and beeped.

“What’s that? What’d you do?” April asked.

“Thought I’d give you a taste. Are you on Twitter?”

“I have an account for the store.”

“I tweeted to tell my 102,678 followers that I’m currently standing in the best vintage store in the state of Tennessee and that they should come check it out.”

“Wow. Thanks, I—”

Lydia raised a finger and picked up her phone. “Hang on. Let’s see what we’re getting. Okay, we’ve got seventy-five favorites, fifty-three retweets. Thanks for the tip, will def check it out … Always trust your taste … Need to make a trip to Nashville, maybe we can meet up and do some shopping …”

“What if—”

Lydia raised her finger again. “Oooh, here’s a good one. This is from Sandra Chen-Liebowitz. That name probably doesn’t ring a bell, but she’s an associate features editor at Cosmo. Let’s see what she has to say: Great tip, actually working on Nashville feature as we speak. Thanks! So you maybe made the pages of Cosmo. Convinced?”

April regarded Lydia for a second and threw up her hands with a little laugh. “Okay. Okay. You win.”

“We win.”

“So, you’re basically the coolest girl in school, I guess?”

Lydia laughed. Dill and Travis joined her. “Oh my. Yes, I’m the coolest. Now, most popular? Let’s just say that being Internet famous carries little cachet among my classmates.”

“It kind of carries negative cachet,” Dill said.

“What he said. Not much high school cachet to be had in being a female who has, you know, vocal opinions about anything.”

“Well, I’m impressed,” April said.

“Fantastic. Now, while you’re ringing up my friend, I’ll be figuring out how best to spend three hundred dollars here.”

“How about you?” April said to Travis. “I’m not sure we have much that fits someone as tall as you, but we might.”

Travis blushed and looked up with a crooked smile. “Oh, no thanks, ma’am. I mostly wear the same thing every day so I can think about other stuff.”

April and Lydia shared a look. Lydia shook her head. April’s face registered understanding.

• • •

Lydia had no trouble whatsoever spending her clothing allowance. Before they left, she had Dill take about fifty pictures of her wearing her new outfits in various combinations. And she had him take about twenty more of her and April. She and April exchanged phone numbers and promised to stay in touch.

They began sweating immediately upon walking outside. It was at least ninety-five degrees. The late-afternoon sun blazed. The cicadas’ hum throbbed like a heartbeat on an ultrasound.

Lydia motioned for everyone to huddle up. “Let’s get some pictures of all of us together. Last school shopping trip to Nashville.”

Dill forced a smile. “Come on, dude, you can do better than that,” Lydia said. He tried again. No better.

“Hey, Lydia, could you take a couple of pictures of me with my staff?”

Lydia was exuberant over the coup she’d scored for Dill, her own clothing finds, and her stylish older new friend. Still, she feigned great annoyance, for consistency’s sake. “Oh all right. Go on. Fetch thy staff.”

Travis bounded to the car and grabbed it. He returned and assumed a grim, contemplative stance. “Okay.”

Lydia took several pictures. Travis changed poses: leaning on his staff, holding the staff at the ready to strike. “Make sure you can see my dragon necklace in them.”

“Dude. I’m not a beginner at making sure cute accessories feature prominently in photos.”

When she finished, Travis came up beside her to look at her work, a wide, childlike grin lighting up his face. He smelled of sweat and the musty odor of clothes that had been left too long in the washing machine before going into the dryer.

“I look good in these,” he murmured. “Like Raynar Northbrook from Bloodfall.”

Dill craned to take a peek. “Oh, those have Raynar Northbrook written all over them.” His teasing went over Travis’s head.

Lydia clapped. “Gentlemen. I’m hungry. Let’s go to Panera.”

“Panera’s too fancy. I want to go to Krystal’s,” Travis said.

“(A), it’s ‘Krystal,’ singular and nonpossessive. And (b), no.”

“Come on, you got to pick the music on the way.”

“There’s a Krystal in Forrestville. There’s no Panera. We didn’t drive all this way to eat at dumb Krystal and get the same diarrhea we could get in Forrestville.”

“Let’s let Dill decide. He can be the tiebreaker.”

Dill had been staring into the distance. “I’m … not hungry. I’ll eat at home.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Travis said. “You can still vote.”

“A vote for Krystal is a vote for walking home,” Lydia said.

“I vote for Panera then,” Dill said, with a more genuine smile.

They ended up getting Krystal for Travis.

DILL HAD HOPED that when he asked if they could make a stop at the prison on the way out of town, after eating, Lydia would say that she had to get home for some reason and couldn’t possibly wait for him to visit his father. But no.

Riverbend Prison was in a deceptively beautiful, pastoral part of Nashville. Rolling hills and a lush carpet of trees surrounded blocky beige buildings with slit windows.

“I won’t be too long, y’all. You know I hate it here,” Dill said, getting out of the car.

Lydia tapped away at her phone. “No worries, dude. I can work on my back-to-school blog post.”

Travis held up his book.

“You guys are supposed to tell me how important it is for you to get home,” Dill said.

“Oh, right,” Lydia said, not looking up. “Okay, Dill, hurry it up in there or, like, I’ll be grounded or get spanked or something.”

“Yeah, hurry it up, Dill,” Travis said. “I really want to get home and hang out with my cool dad instead of reading my favorite book.”

Dill gave them an uneasy smile and flipped them the bird. He took a deep breath and walked toward the main building. He went through security and signed in. Guards took him to the visiting area. It didn’t look like the visiting areas on TV. There weren’t clear dividers and telephone handsets. There was a big room full of round tables, each with two or three chairs, and some vending machines. It resembled his school cafeteria, and he was as excited to be there as he would be at his school cafeteria. It was stuffy and just cool enough to remind you that the building had air conditioning, but some budget or moral constraint kept it from being used to make things very comfortable. Several guards kept vigil around the room.

Dill was the only visitor there. He sat at the table and drummed his fingers. He couldn’t stop bouncing his legs. Just get through this.

He turned and stood as a door opened and a guard led in Dillard Early Sr.

Dill’s father was tall and gaunt, rawboned. He had deep-set dark eyes; a handlebar mustache; and long, greasy black hair streaked with gray and tied in a ponytail. Every time Dill saw him, he appeared harder. More cunning. More feral and serpentine. Prison was whittling him down, carving away what little softness and gentleness he had. He was almost exactly ten years older than Dill’s mother, but he looked twenty years older.

He wore dark-blue denim pants and a light-blue scrub shirt with a number stenciled on the breast and TDOC stenciled on the back.

His father sauntered up. He had a predatory, wary walk. “Hello, Junior.” Dill hated being called Junior. They stood and faced each other for a second. They weren’t allowed to hug or touch in any way. Dill could smell him across the table. He didn’t smell bad, exactly, but unmistakably human. Primal. Like skin and hair that weren’t washed as often as free people’s.

They sat down. Dill’s father set his hands on the table. He had MARK tattooed across one set of knuckles and 1618 tattooed across the other. The tattoos were a new development. And not a good one. Not a promising sign to see him moving in the direction of more weirdness.

Dill tried to sound casual. “Hi, Dad. You got some tattoos, looks like.”

His father glanced at his hands, as though learning a new piece of information. “Yes, I did. They won’t let me practice my signs ministry in here, so I wear my faith on my skin. They can’t take that from me.”

Looks like you’re doing fine in here. When his father had gone to prison, everyone supposed he’d have a hard time, considering what his conviction was for. But they underestimated his father’s charisma. Apparently if you can convince people to pick up rattlesnakes and copperheads and drink poison, you can convince people to protect you from what his father called “the Sodomites.”

They sat and regarded each other for several awkward seconds.

“So … how are you doing?” Dill asked.

“I’m living one day at a time, praise Jesus.”

“Are you … getting enough to eat?” Prison small talk was hard. Not even the weather was a topic of mutual interest.

“My needs are met. How are you and your mother?”

“Surviving. Working hard.”

His intense eyes glittered with a strange light that made Dill feel dark inside. “I’m glad to hear that. Work hard. Pay off our debts, so I can rebuild my ministry when my time here is done. Perhaps you can join me if you’ve grown mighty in faith by then.”

Dill squirmed. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, school starts tomorrow.”

His father rested his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers as if he were praying. “It’s about that time of year, isn’t it? And how will you spend this year in school? Will you be a soldier for Christ and spread the good news of salvation and its signs to your peers? Will you do the work I cannot?”

Dill shifted again in his seat and looked away. He didn’t like making eye contact with his father. His father had the kind of eyes that made people do things they knew could hurt them. “I—I mean, I don’t think my classmates really care that much what I have to say.” Perfect. A reminder of how unpopular I am combined with a reminder of how much I disappoint my dad, all rolled into one package. Visiting prison sure is fun.

His father scooted in, his eyes boring into Dill, a conspiratorial hush to his voice. “Then don’t say. Sing. Lift that voice God’s given you. Use those hands that God blessed with music. Spread the gospel through song. Young people love music.”

Dill stifled a bitter laugh. “Yeah … but not music about picking up snakes and stuff. That kind of music isn’t that popular.”

“The Spirit will move in them the way it moved in our congregation when you sang and played. And when I get out, our congregation will have grown tenfold.”

How about I just try to survive the school year? How about I don’t do anything to add to the ridicule? “Look, Dad, your—our … situation … makes it hard for me to talk to my classmates about stuff like this. They don’t really want to hear it, you know?”

His father snorted. “So we surrender to Lucifer’s device to ruin our signs ministry? We hand him victory without argument?”

“No, I—I don’t—” The surrealness of being made to feel unworthy by a prison inmate set in, preventing Dill from finishing his thought.

“Remember how you would write psalms and sing them with the praise band? Remember that?”

“Yeah. I guess. Yeah.”

Dill’s father sat back in his seat, looking off, shaking his head slightly. “Those songs were beautiful.” He stared back at Dill. “Sing one for me.”

“You mean—like right here? Now?” Dill looked for any sign that his father was joking. That would be an exceedingly rare occurrence, but still.

“Yes. The one you wrote. ‘And Christ Will Make Us Free’.”

“I don’t have my guitar or anything. Plus, wouldn’t it be … weird?” Dill nodded at the bored-looking guards talking among themselves.

His father turned and glanced at the guards. He turned back with a gleam in his eye. “Do you think they think we’re not weird?”

That’s a fair point. Dill blushed. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. He quickly and quietly sang the requested number a capella. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guards stop conversing to listen.

“More,” his father said, applauding. “A new one.”

“I … haven’t really written any new ones for a while.”

“You’ve given up music?”

“Not exactly. I just write … different stuff now.”

His father’s face darkened. “Different stuff. God did not pour out music on your tongue so that you could sing the praises of men and whoredom.”

“I don’t write songs about whoredom. I don’t have even one song about whoredom.”

His father pointed at him. “Remember this. Christ is the way. The only way. Your path to salvation. And your music is your path to Christ. My path to Christ was the manifestation of faith signs. We lose our path to Christ; we lose our path to salvation. We lose our eternal reward. Got it?”

“Yeah. I got it.” Talking to his father made Dill feel like he was talking to a sentient brick wall that somehow knew about Jesus. “Okay, well, I have to go.”

His father’s face darkened further. “You just got here. Surely you didn’t come all this way just to spend a few minutes and go back home.”

“No. I hitched a ride with some friends who had to do some school shopping. They’re waiting out in the parking lot and it’s really hot. They were nice to let me come here for a few minutes.”

Dill’s father exhaled through his nose and stood. “Well, I guess you’d better go to them, then. Goodbye, Junior. Give your mother my love and tell her I’ll write soon.”

Dill stood. “I will.”

“Tell her I’ve been getting her letters.”

“Okay.”

“When will I see you again?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Then I’ll see you when God wills it. Go with Jesus, son.” Dill’s father raised his two fists and put them together side by side. Mark 16:18. Then he turned and walked away.

• • •

Dill released a long exhale as he left the building, as though he’d held his breath for the entire time he was inside to keep from inhaling whatever virulence the men imprisoned there harbored. He felt only slightly better without the dread of visiting his father. Now he just carried the original dread from that morning.

He reached the car. Lydia was saying something to Travis about how many calories a dragon would have to eat per day to be able to breathe fire. Her argument did not seem to be persuading him.

She looked up as Dill approached. “Oh thank God.” She started the car. “So, how’s your dad?”

“Weird,” Dill said. “He’s really weird.”

“Is—” Travis started to ask.

“I don’t really feel like talking about it.”

“Okay, jeez.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude,” Dill said. “Just … let’s go home.”

They were mostly silent on the return trip. Travis read his book. Lydia switched to a Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds/Gun Club mix and tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm, still radiating good cheer. And why shouldn’t she. She’s had a great day.

Dill gazed out the window at the trees that lined both sides of the highway, the occasional handmade roadside cross, marking where someone had met their end, punctuating the unbroken wall of green. Three vultures circled something in the distance, soaring on updrafts. He tried to savor the remaining moments of the drive.

Last time school shopping together. The death of a little piece of my life. And I didn’t even get to enjoy it completely because of my crazy dad. Who keeps slowly getting crazier.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Lydia drive. The edges of her mouth. The way they turned up in a near-perpetual smirk. How her lips moved almost imperceptibly as she unconsciously sang along with the music.

Remember this. Write it on a handmade cross and plant it in your heart to mark this ending.

When they pulled into Forrestville, the shadows were long and the light looked like it was streaming through a pitcher of sweet tea. They dropped Travis off first.

Travis hopped out and bent down to look in the car, his hand on the roof. “Another year, y’all. See you tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately,” Dill said.

Travis ambled up the front walk. He turned and waved again when he reached his porch, staff held high.

Lydia sped off.

“I’m in no hurry to get home,” Dill said.

“Habit.”

“Want to go to Bertram Park and watch trains until it gets dark?”

“I’d love to hang, but I really need to start putting some time into the blog for the next few months. I’ll be leading with it in my college apps, so there needs to be good content.”

“Come on.”

“Look, that’d be fun in its usual somewhat boring way, but no.”

They pulled up to Dill’s house. He sat for a moment, not reaching for the door handle, before turning to Lydia. “You gonna be too busy for us this year?”

Lydia’s face took a defiant cast. Her eyes hardened, her exuberant air evaporating. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—what were we doing for the last several hours? Oh, right.”

“That’s not what I mean. Not today. I mean in general. Is that how this year’s going to be?”

“Um, no dude. Same question. Is this how this year will go? You not understanding and being weird when I need to do the stuff I need to do?”

“No.”

“Well, we’re not off to a great start.”

“I get it. You’ll be busy. Whatever.”

“But you’ll just be really silent and taciturn about it and maybe somewhat of a dick.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“I’m serious, Dill. Please don’t be gross when I’m busy.”

“I’m not being gross.”

“Yeah, you are a little.”

“Sorry.”

They regarded each other for a moment as though giving the opportunity for airing additional demands or grievances. Lydia’s face softened. “On a different topic, half of my salad from Panera isn’t much of a dinner.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I better go. Buds?” She reached over and hugged him goodbye.

Dill breathed in her smell once more, gathering it along with his new clothes. “Thanks for doing this. I didn’t mean to come off as unappreciative.”

“Good, because I made you something.” She pulled from the center console a CD with “Joy Division/New Order” written on it in black Sharpie. “This is what we were listening to on the drive to Nashville. I knew you’d want a copy.”

Dill tapped the CD. “You were right. Thanks.”

“And you should know that ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ is my favorite song on Earth.”

“Noted.”

“Tomorrow, seven-fifteen.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. “I’ll be ready.”

Dill got out and walked up to his house. He climbed the cracked, eroding concrete steps to his front door and had his hand on the doorknob before thinking better of it. No use sitting in a gloomy house until it got dark. He laid his bags of clothes and CD on the steps, then sat and stared at the church sign.

No peace, no peace. No peace, no peace.

IT CHEERED RAYNAR Northbrook’s spirit every time he returned from the hunt to see the battlements of Northhome. He wanted nothing more than to sit beside a roaring fire and let his weariness melt away with a flagon of summer mead, trading tales of conquest of lands and beautiful women with his captain of the guard. Until he looked down from his highest battlement and saw the ranks of Rand Allastair’s army of fell men and Accursed approaching to lay siege to his walls, he meant to enjoy life….

Travis walked in to see his father finishing off a can of Budweiser, his feet on the coffee table, watching the Braves play the Cardinals. A plate covered in congealing chicken wing bones sat on his lap. His eyes were red and bleary.

His father didn’t look up from the TV. “Where were you?”

“In Nashville, school shopping for Lydia and Dill. I told you.”

His father belched, crumpled the can, added it to a large pile, and drew a new can from a dwindling pile. “You get yourself some new clothes? So you don’t look like Dracula?” He popped open the beer.

“No. I like my clothes.”

His father chuckled. “And why on Earth wouldn’t you. Reading all that shit about wizards and fairies.”

“Clint, honey, please don’t curse,” Travis’s mom—timid and red-haired like him—called from the kitchen. How Travis ever came from such a tiny woman was a mystery. Actually, how Travis came from his father was also a decent mystery.

“My house. I’ll damn well curse,” his father called back.

“Well I wish you wouldn’t. Travis, are you hungry for supper?”

“No ma’am.” Travis started for his room.

“Hang on. Ain’t done talking with you yet.”

Travis turned.

“First day of school,” his father said.

“Yep.”

“I ever tell you I was quarterback my senior year? Threw the winning pass against Athens High in the semis. Matt was quarterback too.”

“You had mentioned that before. Couple of times.” Travis felt a sharp pang at the mention of his deceased brother. Matt had always sat down with him the night before school started and given him a little pep talk. Told him how to talk to girls. To stick up for himself. To be a leader and not a follower. Travis already didn’t care for this new sort of pep talk.

“You plan on spending senior year with your dick in your hand?” his father asked.

“No sir. In my pants like normal.”

“You being cute?”

“No sir.” Travis inched toward his room.

His father wasn’t done. “What do you plan to do?”

“Shop classes. Try to get good grades. Graduate. Learn, I guess.”

His father smirked. “You gonna kick some beaner ass again this year?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Travis said. “Alex’s left me alone.”

During junior year, Alex Jimenez cornered Dill in the cafeteria and began playing the “slapping game” with him. The game was simple: Alex slapped at Dill until hopefully he provoked Dill to retaliate, so that he had an excuse to beat Dill’s ass. As the only Latino in their class, Alex wasn’t much higher in the social hierarchy than Dill, but winning a fight usually moved you up a rung.