The fire has transformed Tucker’s 1978 Chevy LUV into a mix of black, gray, and rusty orange, the windows shattered by the heat, the tires missing, the interior a sickening blackened twist of metal and melted dashboard and upholstery. And for an instant the sorrow eases.īluebell’s not blue anymore. I look up the sleeve of his suit to his face, his serious green gold-flecked eyes.
I shouldn’t let him hold my hand, not now, not after everything, but I don’t pull away. Then someone takes my hand, and it’s familiar, the heat of his skin, the slender yet masculine fingers enfolding mine. He says, “Let’s just get this over with.” I wish I knew what he meant. He gazes straight ahead, his jaw set in determination or anger or something else I can’t identify. He’s wearing a suit, black jacket and everything: dark gray button-down shirt, shiny shoes, a striped silver tie. That’s when I see my brother walking beside me.
A warm breeze stirring the trees.Ī Black Wing must be nearby, really nearby, if the raging grief is any indication. Overhead the sky is a pure, cloudless blue. It’s not the hillside from my vision, not the forest fire, not anyplace I’ve seen before. I walk among pine trees up a gentle slope.
I feel it over everything else, a terrible grief that chokes me, blurs my sight, weighs down my feet as I move through the tall grass.
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