KINGS OF THE NEW WORLD

Chapters One and Two

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In yesterday’s newsletter, I said that I would be sharing the first two chapters of my serial fiction with all of you…so without further adieu, here they are! If this isn’t your kind of story, no worries. Delete this email and trust that I won’t be spamming you with more chapters. If you do find yourself engaged with the story, I humbly ask that you join my Patreon (it’s free) to be a regular reading member.

DON'T GO TO A SECOND LOCATION

I am over my dad’s unhinged obsession with the apocalypse ruining my plans. Does he really believe the end of days is imminent? Unclear. I gave up trying to understand him back in middle school. All I do know is that I should be across the street at Troy’s, not in my basement doing inventory on our family’s doomsday supplies–again.

“Why d’you think he called for inventory today?” my older brother Logan asks when we cross paths in the center aisle. Inventory was supposed to be two Sundays from now.

“Maybe because of all the news about that virus. I heard them talking about it again,” I say. “Them” is the Inner Circle, the only other people outside our family who have any clue that our basement—or any of the related lunacy—exists. Because, our father is also a United States senator, and this whole doomsday thing wouldn’t exactly play well in the media.

“I’m missing open gym,” Logan says from a few shelves away. Cardboard rasps the metal shelves as he shoves a box back in place with a little too much force, his frustration leaking out.

“And I was supposed to be studying with Amy over an hour ago.” It’s easy to match his frustration, even though my reason is a lie, heavy in my throat. But now is so not the right time to tell Logan that I’ve been hooking up with his best friend.

Logan comes around the corner to meet up with me in the aisle. “Like you really need to study for calculus,” he says.

Being Dad’s shining star student is my designated role in our picture perfect family. I don’t know what Logan’s would’ve been if he hadn’t been held back when dyslexia got in his way. Now my brother’s role is popular, handsome, star athlete. As a whole, our family makes excellent campaign ads.

“But Amy and math…they don’t mix,” I say.

“We can’t all be geniuses at everything like you are,” he says, flashing me his proud big brother smile.

My stomach squirms. I hate that I’ve been lying to him about Troy. Until a few months ago, I had never told my brother a lie, not even a lie of omission. See, the trouble with being a Carroway is that lying to the rest of the world is a necessity. Logan’s the only other person who understands what that’s like. Amy tries. Her parents are in the Inner Circle, too, but they aren’t leaders, and her dad is not a senator.

It’s okay. I’m an expert at the lies, at keeping the world inside here—the basement, the Inner Circle, the truth about Dad—hidden from everyone else. It’s a necessity, but hiding Troy from Logan feels like a necessity, too. At least, for a little longer, until I figure out how I really feel about him—especially now that I’ve been keeping him a secret for so long.

I glance at Logan, the guilt twisting fresh, but my brother is busy, marking things off on his clipboard.

My phone buzzes in my butt pocket and chirps in my ear. I tilt the screen so Logan can’t see.

TROY: when r u coming over

TROY: my mom leaves in 30 mins then we’re alone

Heat rises to my cheeks. I tap out a quick response.

SOPHIE: lost track of time studying

TROY: study faster 😜🙂

Logan crinkles his brow and points at my phone. “What?”

“Nothing. Amy. She’s—” I shake my head, pretending to be amused at some ridiculous thing she’s texted me. “You wanna see?” I raise my eyebrows. “She’s talking about you again, and how—”

“Gross.” He mocks gagging. “She needs to knock that shit off. She’s basically my second sister.” Logan is the subject of Amy’s most lurid fantasies, precisely because of Logan’s reaction. It’s priceless.

I turn down my next aisle—first-aid supplies—and count. Band-aids. Ibuprofen. Neosporin. Ace bandages. Rubbing alcohol. Syringes. It looks like a poorly-lit Walmart down here. Sometimes, I imagine calling the local news and telling them about the basement. Not about the guns or Logan’s survivalist training or any of the other stuff, just the existence of the basement. Just, Hey, Senator Carroway’s got three years’ worth of canned food on shelves in his basement. Maybe I’d send pictures, too. Maybe I’d use the word cult.

The media would. But not Dad. Once, I gave him the point-by-point comparison of the Inner Circle to other cults, like Jonestown, to try and make him see. But when I said, “They almost always end with mass suicides,” he snapped the printed articles out of my hands.

“We’re not in a cult.” His clipped enunciation told me I struck a nerve. I’ve never said the word cult to him again, but I think it whenever one of them is in our house and every time I’m in our basement. The trouble with the basement is that it’s always here: under me when I’m home, lurking in my thoughts when I’m not.

I scroll through some songs on my phone until I land on one that Troy likes to play when we’re alone. Amy says it’s definitely a sex song. All I know is that it’s not the sort of song I ever would have liked before I started hanging out with Troy. But, it makes me think of him, which is a lot better than thinking about the basement. And as the first aching words strum through my AirPods, I make up my mind: tonight will be the night.

#

Only one of Dad’s drivers, Johnny, is in the Inner Circle, and he’s the one who picks me up to take me to the bookstore where I’m allegedly meeting Amy to study. If I lived a normal person’s life, I would walk across the street and knock on Troy’s door. But I don’t, so I have to weave a few more lies just to get out of the house, and I’m not in the mood for casual conversation that might slip nonchalantly towards the basement.

“Need to use every minute to catch up on my coding,” I say, patting my laptop. Everyone in the Inner Circle knows my coding is a high priority for my father and the other leader, Mr. Kennedy. They want someone who can “speak the language,” and I’m actively avoiding thinking about why.

Johnny nods, approvingly, and lets me hide behind my laptop for the whole drive.

Troy’s Audi is already parked at the far end of the lot when my car pulls up.

“What time should I pick you up?” Johnny asks.

“I’m not sure yet. A lot to do.” I pat my laptop again. “I’ll text my mom when I’m done.”

“Let me check Mrs. Carroway’s schedule.” He swipes up on a tablet affixed to his dashboard. My phone buzzes. It’s a GIF from Troy, a cartoon tapping its fingers impatiently. “Alright, Sophie. Looks like she’s free tonight, but you know the drill. School night and all.”

“Yep. I call you if Mom’s not available.”

“And?” Johnny tilts the rearview and looks over his sunglasses my way.

“I know the rules, Johnny.”

Johnny arches an eyebrow.

“Don’t go to a second location,” I regurgitate before slipping out of the backseat.

Bells tinkle when I open the bookstore’s door. I head straight to the mismatched tables at the center, where other students from Three Hills Prep pour over books and drink coffee. Avoiding all eye contact, I spin the rack of flimsy paperbacks and start the obligatory sixty second countdown before I can hop into Troy’s car.

Familiar hands rub my shoulders.

“Hey,” Troy whispers in my ear. The war begins: I can’t wait to kiss him versus too many people will see us. I whip around. This is one of those moments when I see him for who he is now, instead of the kid who used to destroy my Lego sculptures when we were little—and my chest aches, fingers tingle.

“Hey.” I suppress a grin. “Let’s get—”

He kisses me. Right here in front of at least six kids we’ve been going to school with since forever. Panic swells in my throat, and—even though stopping him is the last thing I want to do—I pull away. It’s a problem how much I love to kiss this boy.

Tonight is definitely the night.

The way he side-eyes me the whole ride back to his place—how he fidgets more than normal with the music—how he kisses me at the red lights—it all says: he knows I’ve decided.

Like always, I duck out of view for the few hundred yards I’d be visible from my house before Troy pulls into his garage, and we’re free from the weight of being caught. Hours. I bought us hours with the studying and coding excuses.

Troy closes the door behind us and exhales. He twines his fingers through mine and tugs me close. The nervous energy in my stomach expands to bursting across my skin. Goosebumps everywhere. He kisses me, long and slow—almost sleepily. Lingering.

“We can eat later,” he whispers, in reference to the dinner he promised me when we made these plans.

“What’d you get me?” I ask with a small smile as we pass through the kitchen on our way to…the couch? His room? Heat dances up my spine.

He waves towards the dining room table where take-out containers are neatly organized. “My mom got us dinner from that place you like.”

“Wait.” I yank my hand free. “Your mom?” The realization—Dr. Benfield knows about us, which means that Troy’s dad knows about us, too—descends like a cold, wet towel draped over my shoulders. “You told your parents about us?” I can’t tamp down the accusation in my voice.

His eyes go wide. He falters then sets his jaw. “You’re basically my girlfriend. I mean, this,”—he reaches for me again—“between us, is a thing.”

Girlfriend? My breath comes in panicky waves. I bite my lip, hard, to steady myself.

Troy continues, “Why don’t we just tell Logan? Make it official.”

“The timing’s not right.” The answer tumbles out, my voice agitated, blood pulsing in my ears. Logan is only a minor reason that I can’t be Troy Benfield’s girlfriend. But my brother is the best–no, only–excuse I can give to Troy.

My dad is the real reason. Of course.

Right after New Year’s, Dad announced a whole bunch of new things Logan and I weren’t allowed to do anymore: no more Uber, no more leaving the house without cash, no more spending time with the Benfields.

“You don’t really think he’s going to kick my ass?” Troy asks. Logan kicking Troy’s ass is a distinct possibility. Fighting is part of Logan’s survivalist training, and he’s a champion—boxing, cage matches, wrestling, all of it.

“Let’s review the facts.” I tick them off on my fingers. “We’ve lived across the street from each other forever. We’ve been going to school together forever. My brother is going to ask ‘why all the sudden’? And what are you going to say? Because your sister ‘got hot’? He’ll punch you.”

“I guess it’ll be real weird for you when you tell him that you started it then?” He breaks into a wide grin because he knows it’s true. I kissed him—first.

A few days after Dad announced his “no Benfields” decree, my parents hosted a small Inner Circle Get Together–Mom and Dad, Mr. Kennedy, and the twelve men they call the Captains–so Logan and I were excused, but Logan was going out to meet up with Troy and some other kids who were hanging out in the playground.

“You should come with me,” Logan said, but what he really meant was, I don’t want to leave you alone during a Get Together.

I agreed even though I don’t really hang out with people the way my brother does. I study. I code. I compete in robotics. I hang out with Amy. I deal in doomsday. That’s the end of my list. Logan’s list is a lot longer and the only place where his overlaps mine—until Troy—is the apocalypse.

Troy had turned the whole thing into a party with about a dozen seniors. They mixed up hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps in one of those orange Gatorade coolers and served it in bathroom Dixie cups between the climbable pirate ship in the center of our community’s playground and the thick concrete wall enclosing our neighborhood.

I hung back, leaning against the pirate ship waiting for Amy to text me back from Costa Rica. Her parents let her go on one of those volunteer trips to build houses. Meanwhile my parents were adding more and more restrictions. She finally responded.

AMY: omg omg omg

AMY: I totally hooked up with Benji 🥵

Jealousy ignited behind my ribs. Not over Benji the person, but Benji the kiss. She was somewhere new, without her parents, having fun, being free. Yet, me taking an Uber was forbidden.

That’s when Troy walked up to me. Because he’s the kind of guy who walks up to a girl who’s standing by herself on a pirate-themed playground.

“How’s your—ah—your robot thing?” he asked.

I glanced down at that text from Amy and up at Troy. His breath was chocolaty-minty warm, and I had the strange thought that a first kiss ought to taste good and that maybe Amy and Benji’s didn’t.

So I just kissed him. Troy’s lips were hot, the air sparkling cold. It tasted okay, which I know is not the point. But he kissed back, only the tiniest softening of his lips on mine and a hesitant lean in before I pulled away.

He also dropped his drink, but the others—except Logan, who only pretends to drink—were buzzed and pushing each other on the swings. They didn’t notice Troy’s party foul or the kiss.

“What the hell was that, Sophie?” Troy asked with a strange, mouth-agape sort of smile.

“I kind of needed a first kiss,” I said, thinking about Amy’s text again, my jealousy now smoldering ashes.

He shook his head at me, picked up his wilting Dixie cup, and walked back to the cooler to refill, tossing one confused look over his shoulder at me.

That seemed like the perfect time to head home, so I gave Logan a quick nod, and headed towards our house knowing my brother would follow after a few minutes.

I heard steps behind me right away though.

It wasn’t until the hand landed on my shoulder that I realized it wasn’t Logan.

I spun around to find Troy standing there, no Dixie cup. Before I had a chance to say anything, he reached for my face, one ice-cold hand on each cheek and kissed me.

It still tasted alright, but his kiss was better than mine. He knew what he was doing. He knew how to make it last. He knew how to make me feel it down to my toes, but I didn’t need him to know that.

“See? I get to check that off my list now,” I said when he pulled away.

“Your list?” he shook his head again, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing.

“First kiss.” I mimed checking it off on a giant, imaginary list.

“That was a second kiss,” he corrected.

He started texting me the next day. Something about whether or not to tell Logan. Obviously no, we decided. But, one text turned into day-long conversations, which turned into “meet me at the playground,” which turned into whatever this is between us right now. It’s been going on this way since that day over winter break. He keeps texting and I keep responding—and thinking about him. That cold-hot kiss in this tiny mental space that is only for me.

“Come on, Sophie,” Troy drops his voice to something he might consider a sexy whisper, bringing me back to this moment. The take-out containers his mom bought before heading to the hospital for her shift. The word girlfriend. “Logan’s not going to kick my ass. Not when I tell him how I feel about you.” His voice is a little sexy. Fine. Troy is a lot sexy.

My pulse thrums in my neck, and a wave of heat rises from the pit of my stomach. I can’t let him say any more, so I kiss him. This is all I want to think about—not all the ways being Troy’s “girlfriend” will be a problem.

The world narrows to just me and Troy. He pulls me—never letting his lips leave mine—to the couch. He angles me down, tossing a few gray throw pillows to the floor. His hand meanders over my shirt, under my shirt. He pauses, pushes up, hovering over me, and quirks an eyebrow. The silent question, can I take off your shirt? floats between us. I nod, and we toss my shirt aside.

Definitely tonight. It has to be. He’ll forget about the girlfriend thing maybe.

Heat flashes over my skin as his hand slides over my stomach down to my waist. Unsnaps a button.

A distant trilling sound cuts through our breathing. From the dining room table where I left my phone face up next to the take out.

“Robocalls,” Troy whispers. “Ignore it.”

But icy dread already slides down my spine. The thing about being a senator’s daughter is that my number isn’t for sale to telemarketers. No one—except Logan—calls me, and my brother always has a reason when he calls. And the reason is never good.

“I can’t.” I slip out from under Troy.

“I was—we were—Sophie,” Troy protests. Frustration tugs at the edges of everything.

I slide my thumb to answer Logan’s call. “Hey, what’s up?” I keep my voice flat for Troy’s benefit.

“Dad’s having a Get Together,” Logan says, his voice tight and low. A rumble of talking and movement fills the background. “Mr. Kennedy is here.” Mr. Kennedy, the true leader of the Inner Circle, single-handedly funded my father’s first campaign. No one misses a Get Together and nothing about the Inner Circle is voluntary—especially not where Mr. Kennedy is concerned. My knees weaken with panic.

Troy wraps his arms around my bare stomach and draws me back against him. The air between us is thick with heat. “Who is it?” Troy asks—purposely—I’m sure—grazing my ear with his lips. I want to hang up and forget everything about this phone call. My heart thuds my sternum.

“Who was that?” Logan’s voice in my ear. Everything burns—my throat, my skin, my cheeks, my chest. I don’t know which of them to answer first.

“It’s Logan,” I whisper to Troy.

On the other end of the line, Logan barrels on. “Where are you?”

“This is getting too messed up.” Troy grabs the phone out of my hand. “Hey, man, it’s Troy. We’re at my place,” he says into the phone. I reach for it, but Troy moves out of my way and sits down. “And there’s something we need to tell you.”

“We?” I mouthe to Troy.

He shakes his head at me, as if I’m being really silly—and a flare of anger spikes in my thoughts. My phone. My brother. My family. My basement. My problem.

Troy sets my phone on the wooden coffee table, presses the speaker button, and motions for me to sit next to him. My body is too tight to move. Blood rushes past my ears. This is not the perfect timing I was waiting on.

“Get home, Sophie,” Logan says.

This is an unmitigated disaster, actually.

“Hang on. Logan,” Troy says. “Sophie and I—”

“We’re sort of a thing,” I word-vomit. If Logan’s going to hear this, it has to come from me. “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t think it would last.” Troy throws his hands up in exasperation, and I shrug. I wanted to have one—just one—normal night and kiss a boy. I never thought I’d still be kissing him.

“But it is serious.” Troy holds my gaze as he continues. Imploring eyes, unbuttoned and wrinkled shirt, flushed cheeks, messy hair, that exposed collar bone—this is a different world than what’s happening at my house across the street. I’m intensely aware of my unbuttoned jeans. “At least, it’s serious for me. I—”

“Sophie,” Logan interrupts, “come home. Now. Amy’s already here and they’re looking for you and everyone is pissed.” He hangs up.

I fix my face into an expressionless mask, but my stomach roils and fear constricts my throat. I told everyone that I was with Amy tonight. Dad’s warnings come back to me about avoiding the Benfields. Do my parents know about Troy? I try to swallow, but my mouth’s gone papery dry.

“Did that go well?” Troy runs his hand through his hair. “I can’t even tell.”

Unmitigated disaster. My heart thumps wild and heavy.

“You think he’s really pissed?” Troy asks, misreading my reaction completely.

“I have to go.” I button my jeans. Disappointment surges through me, cold and final. Troy jumps to his feet, moves in front of me. This could be…the end of this, with him. Tears sting my eyes.

“This is some epic B.S.,” he says. “How about, I don’t care if your brother is pissed at me? If he makes me choose between the two of you, I’m picking my girlfriend.”

That word again. It’s so stupid, but it knocks the wind out of me. I stretch up on my toes and kiss him goodbye, but just like that first kiss—he knows how to make it last. I don’t want to pull away. A lump wedges itself in my throat. Is this love?

“Stay,” he whispers—half-word, half-kiss.

“I can’t.” Not when the Inner Circle expects me to go.

DEAD RATS DON'T FLOAT

As soon as my bike tires hit the gravel at the end of our driveway, I see Dad waiting. I white-knuckle the handlebars. I thought he’d be gone already.

“There are rats in the barrels,” he calls.

I slide off the bike, kicking up dust, and walk it the rest of the way. Buying time. Finding my chill. The second to last thing I want to do right now is fish dead rodents out of their death traps. The only thing worse is getting into another fight with Dad.

“I’ll get to it.” I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead. I look past him to the front window. My little brother, Martin, and sister, Maddie, are watching us, so I’ve got to keep my cool.

“Get it done. Before they rot in there. Left you a list. I’ve got errands.” He opens the driver’s side door to his rusted-out pick-up. It groans.

“I have a shit ton of homework.”

“You had time for the gym,” he says, stepping into his seat. He pats himself down, looking for the keys like usual.

“I had to serve that opportunity for cutting class. I’ve gotta stay on the up-and-up with Coach. He could nix me any time.” Coach Dotson calls the extra workouts “opportunities.” As in, an opportunity to get back on his good side. I’m betting Coach is the only thing between me and getting expelled from Three Hills Prep, so I take the opportunities. All of them.

“Not if you’re at the top he won’t,” Dad says, keys in hand now. He gives me a look, like him reminding me is all I really need to get there, to the top.

“Carroway’s still on the team, remember?”

Dad bristles at the name.

Last night, Coach set Logan Carroway on me in the ring. The kid’s a beast. I held my own right up until I didn’t. He pulled some of his crazy shit. The shit where it’s like I hit him one too many times and released his pressure valve. Logan just came at me, pinned me up in the corner and rained down til Coach blew the whistle. That’s how it is when I spar with Logan. He’s the top dog, but, man, am I close. On instinct, I reach up and touch my eyebrow. It’ll be a black eye tomorrow.

“Just get it done. I wouldn’t have errands if you’d done your job last week,” Dad says. He starts the engine. It sputters, and I turn away to keep the dust from kicking up into my eyes.

Maddie and Martin are still watching from the window. Maddie loves a goofy face, so I cross my eyes and stick out my tongue at her as I come up the stairs. I don’t want them to know how I feel.

That it doesn’t matter how hard I bust my ass. There’s not enough of me to get it all done. Something’s gotta give, but I’ll never let it be Martin or Maddie.

By the time the front door whips shut behind me, Martin’s already waiting at the table with Dad’s list. “I can help with the goats and that other thing,” he says.

I tousle his hair. That “other thing” is the rats.

Maddie still thinks the barrels are rat swimming pools. She doesn’t know they’re an old farmer trick. Sprinkle some oats on about a foot of water and prop up two-by-fours. The rats walk right up to the barrel, smell the oats, and jump in, thinking it’s a feast. Then they drown, and I have to fish them out.

“I’ve got the other thing. You take care of the goats, alright?”

“Sure,” Martin says, meeting my eyes. “Is everything okay? I heard you and Dad last night.”

We had it out over money. He’s pissed I didn’t bring in enough cash. He said I didn’t push hard enough to sell, but it was near impossible with Coach Dotson on my ass all week about my grades and about cutting class.

I shoot Martin a warning look. Not in front of Maddie.

“Hey, Maddie-moose,” I say, picking her up. “Let’s get some food, eh?”

There’s three days’ worth of dishes, maybe four, in the kitchen. All that’s left in the fridge is a jug of day-old milk with an inch left, a shriveled orange, a box of pizza with two crusts, baking soda, and a jar of grape jelly. Mom never used to get that stuff. She said it wasn’t real food. I settle on a few cans of ravioli. Better than grape jelly sandwiches, I guess.

After we eat, I send Martin and Maddie to the chick house so that I can get the rats tossed out. The chicks will only keep her busy for so long, so I have to work fast.

Dead rats don’t float straightaway. I reach in, up to my armpit to get the first one. The water is icy cold. My arm is aching numb by the time I’ve got the slippery brown body of the fifth rat in my hand.

“Come back!” Maddie squeals. A yellow fuzz of a chick runs down the ramp. My sister’s galloping after it, giggling like a cartoon. And I’ve got a dead rat in my hand and a pile of them at my feet. I drop the rat. It sloshes back into the barrel.

I don’t lie much, but if Maddie asks me what happened to these rats, I will. She’s got to make it to her fifth birthday before she figures out that the “rat pools” have been death traps this whole time.

Maddie narrows her big eyes with suspicion. “It’s still too cold for swimming,” she says. She’s wicked smart sometimes. I block her view while I kick their dead bodies back behind the barrel. For a beat, I’m thinking about how Mom explained life and death because I might be busted.

“Hey, Maddie-moose,” Martin calls from the goat pen. “Your goat is eating rocks again.”

This gets her attention, and she scrambles to the edge of the goat pen to watch. I really hate the goats, but not as much as fishing out the dead rats.

We run through all the regular maintenance chores, and I listen to the book I’m supposed to be reading for English class, Brave New World. Ms. Finnegan got it all wrong when she told us about this one. She should’ve skipped the part about dystopia and sold everyone on the sex and drugs.

Thing is, it doesn’t matter that Martin and Maddie help me for the rest of the day. I’m nowhere near done with the chores by the time I need to get them ready for bed. It’s a Sunday night, and I’m already behind for the week.

I’ve got my paperback open to the chapter where I left off listening and have just started reading when headlights arc up our driveway. The scuff of boxes and grunts from my dad at the side of the house tell me he’s gotten a big haul of stuff. The time tells me he didn’t bother to get any food—at least nothing that needs a fridge. So, I go out there already pissed off.

Then I see the bed of his truck and pissed doesn’t cover it. There’s two generators in boxes, some milk crates of crap that I can’t pick out in the dark, two small trees in plastic black pots, and standing on the roof of the truck cab is another fucking goat.

“What the hell, Dad?”

He jumps, fingers twitching around the dull glint of a handgun sticking out of his holster. “Jesus, Mason. How many times—”

“Shove it. You didn’t even get food? Just all this shit? What about milk? For Maddie and Martin in the morning. Remember them?”

“Goat milk is—”

“Goat milk tastes like shit,” I slam my hand on the side of the truck.

“Son, you saw the news about that virus. This could be the real deal. If the shit hits the fan you’ll be thanking your lucky stars that I’ve done all this. You’ll realize why…”

Sometimes, when he starts in on one of these rants, I want to throat-punch him to make it stop. I tune him out and watch the goat. It’s chewing a stick.

“Another goat?” I cut him off.

“You know why,” he spits back. “You can eat them when times are tough. You can milk them, and they’re easy enough to manage. Now, go on, pen this one up with the others. We can talk after.”

I don’t have enough left in me to fight this tonight. It always ends the same way anyhow. Me pissed. Him getting his way.

The goat bleats at me.

Five minutes later, after I’ve chased the stupid thing around the yard, I’ve got it staked into the pen with the others. Dad’s voice comes from around the back of the house, “She needs milking.”

This one kicks. She tries hard to nail me in the chest the whole time. That’s another reason Dad says goats are better. A cow can kill you with one kick. When the goat connects, it’s no worse than a gut punch, and I’ve had plenty of those.

I’m sweaty, dirty, and more sore than I’ve been in a long time when I finally finish with the goat. I’m drinking water from the hose by the light of the back porch when a Lexus SUV peels down the road and up onto the gravel of our driveway. It kicks up a gray storm of dust like thick fog in the headlight beams. Normally, people stay in their cars and wait for the clouds to settle, but this guy runs out before he’s hardly put it in park.

He calls, “Stay put,” to whoever he’s leaving in the car, and sprints up the stairs to my front door, coughing from the dust. “Wetherell!” Mr. Lexus cough-yells as he bangs on our door. “Wetherell! I need your help!”

Nothing surprises me much anymore, but this dude in a shiny Lexus showing up out of nowhere surprises the shit out of me. Surprises that involve my Dad are no good. No good at all.

If you liked what you read here, click here to keep reading Chapter Three.

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Thank you for reading.

All my best,