Chapter 1

AGE 6, JULY

It's raining,the day he leaves.

The living room window, smeared with streaks of water, is cold against the small palm of my hand. I've got my cheek smushed against the top of the couch, where I hide behind the cushions, and under my breath, I'm humming my favorite song. The one I was listening to before my CD player died.

It's why I came out here—to ask Momma for more batteries—even though I'm supposed to be in my room.

But it was quiet, so I figured maybe she forgot to come get me when they were done fighting.

But they weren't done. They just took it outside.

Now, Momma's standing in the gravel driveway with her arms crossed. She's still crying, but she's no longer screaming or shoving at him or grabbing at the collar of his jean vest like she was a second ago, trying to hold him in place.

She's just…standing there in the rain, her shoulders bunched up by her ears, brown hair spilling down her back like a waterfall, leaving wet streaks all down her pale blue shirt.

My belly hurts. It's hurtin' real bad. Feels like something's trying to crawl outta me. With the hand not pressed to the glass, I twist my fingers in my shirt, digging around deeper and deeper like I could get to whatever it is and make it stop.

I watch through the blur of rain as he climbs into his rusty red pick-up truck, head drooped between his shoulders, his blond hair hanging wetly around his face and neck.

He no longer looks angry, like he did before when he shoved Momma back and pointed at the house.

My fingers curl into the leather couch just as he slams the door shut. I hear it even in here, even under the pouring rain, even under the thump-thumpin' in my ears, and the humming in my throat as I try to keep the music inside me, just like the song says.

I blink a couple times, squinting, peeking just over the couch, trying to see his face through the driver's side window.

The engine pops in that way it does when he starts it—like a gun going off—and black smoke puffs outta the pipe in the back.

My humming fades, and I'm left panting hotly against the leather cushion.

The truck rumbles and dirt kicks up around his tires as he pulls away, tail-lights sweeping over our front yard, and beaming through the house, lighting the world red.

Then he's gone, and it's all dark and gray and silent, except for the rain and my loud heavy breathing.

I keep watching, keep waiting for him to turn around.

The front door opens.

Closes.

Footsteps…

My breath hitches?—

"Mason?"

"Where's Dad going?"

I hear a tired sigh. "Kid, you're supposed to b?—"

I whirl away from the window and cushions and scramble off the couch, throw pillows tumbling to the floor. Standing tall to face Momma, I cross my arms. "Where is he going?" I demand louder now, in my big boy voice.

That's what Dad calls it—my tough voice. Shows people I won't take no crap.

"It's a big, bad world out there, son. You gotta have thick skin to make a name for yourself. There's no room for softness, or tears… Not when you're a man. They'll walk all over you. You don't want that, do you?"

No, I don't, I think now as I clench my jaw to stop the shiverin', and lift my chin, staring up at Momma with hard, hot eyes.

They feel funny, my eyes. The burny kind of funny that means I'm gonna cry. But I'm not a stupid baby anymore, so I hold it in, just like I hold back sneezes when I'm in church.

Momma doesn't hold it in though. Her eyes are red and wet, and I know it's not just a'cause of the water dripping down from her whole body, leaving a trail of puddles leading from the front door, and into our carpeted living room.

Dad's not gonna be too happy 'bout that.

But it's okay if she cries. She's a girl. Dad says girls are sensitive, and it makes them cry a lot, but it's okay. They can't help it, all the big feelings they've got. It's our job to take care of them, and protect them, because those feelings make them silly sometimes.

"He's going…away," she tells me slowly, her voice thick. She sounds weird—like she's far away, even though she's standing right there. Her eyes look like that too—shiny and distant, like she doesn't even see me.

I blink a couple times. My whole face feels like it's crumbling, and there's an itch under my skin that makes me think of that time I had chicken pox last winter, back when I was still five, when Momma had to wrap my hands in blankets to keep me from scratching as I cried and begged and wiggled around.

It felt like there were little red fire ants crawling all up over my skin, biting me. It hurt not to scratch, it was that bad.

Momma had held me and rocked me through the worst of it, even when Dad would get all huffy and say I was a big boy and she was coddlin' me. Whatever that means. I didn't care then. I didn't feel good, and she was so warm and soft. She held me so tight too, and the tighter she held me, the less I itched.

I look down at my arms now, at my pale hands.

No spots. No nothin'.

Just little wiggly shadows from the rain hitting the window behind me, making my skin look gray and watery like the walls.

"Mason…"

"Away where?" I whisper in a small voice.

I hate that my voice does that—making me sound all scared and little-like. Weak. But there's something in my throat, making it feel hard to get words out around it.

And when I try to swallow it away, it hurts, making my eyes all hot.

"Just…away," she says even slower, her voice hitching. There's a creaking footstep, then another. Cold, wet hands touch my shoulders, squeezing shakily. Even through my blue and red Captain America pajamas, I feel it, soaking through me.

The wet.

The cold.

It sinks down into my bones.

It's summer. It should be hot and dry, not…this.

But it's raining—pouring buckets—and it's been doing it since yesterday.

Is that why she's so cold?

Is that why I'm shaking… why she's shaking?

Momma crouches down, putting her face even with mine.

She's got a pretty face, Momma. That's what Dad says a lot. "Pretty face without any brains," he'd tell me.

I didn't…like it when he'd say that. It was wrong after all. You can't live without brains. I asked Momma once, forever ago, to be sure. She had a funny look on her face when I asked, and I remember how she crouched down just like she is now, like she always does when it's serious stuff, and told me how that's a mean thing Dad says, and I shouldn't repeat it or listen to him.

Words like that hurt her.

I didn't like that, even if I didn't quite understand then how words can hurt.

I still don't.

Maybe it's one of those grown-up things.

Maybe this is too.

So…why is it happening then? I'm only six.

In the living room, rain pounds against the windows, our tin roof. Harder now, it sounds like.

"Cats and dogs," Dad would say, and I'd giggle, telling him, "Noooo, it's water."

I'm rocking my head side to side, slow at first, then faster, and I feel something wet hit my cheek. I'm inside though, so I know what it really is, and I quickly, angrily rub it away with my knuckles, so hard Momma has to grab my wrist and pull my hand away from my face.

She's gentle about it though. Soft, just like her tears. Not like Dad with his big, rough hands that smell of gas stations and something sweeter. Not a good kind of sweet, like candy or maple syrup, but a yucky kind of sweet, almost like metal. It always made my belly get all sloshy inside when I smelled it on him, and he's been smelling like that a lot lately. All summer long.

"It's okay now, kid," Momma tells me, her voice shaking. "It's all going to be okay."

My whole body is tremblin'—just like her fingers on my shoulders, just like her voice. My head's rocking side to side, and questions start tumblin' from my lips, faster than I can keep up with:

"When's he comin' back?"

"Why didn't he take me with him?"

"Where's he going? I wanna go."

"When's he comin' back?"

Over and over and over again I ask, 'til words start running together, and Momma's hushing me, and I can't catch my breath, and she's squeezing me tight just like that time I was sick with the itches.

I don't understand.

Dad always takes me with him. I'm his helper. His little man.

The grocery store.

The garage.

Fishin'…though we never catch anything.

He always takes me.

It's our guy time.

"Men need to be alone sometimes. It's good for us."

He'd tell me funny stories and let me help carry things. Teach me things. Pat my head and tell me I'm a good boy.

And if we were at the river down the road, he'd nap or smoke or drink with a fishing rod in his hand, while I'd play superheroes in the woods, throwing rocks and stuff and practicing my super-strength. Or I'd go in the water, and practice holding my breath underwater. But only if it was low enough for me to stand in. I didn't know how to swim yet, but I was learnin' and practicin' and bein' real careful.

He was cool like that, always lettin' me do things on my own. Not like Momma. She was a worrier.

Too soft.

"I want Dad!" I scream, shoving away from Momma.

But she's bigger than me. Tougher, even though I'm a boy. Tougher than I think Dad even realized, though not as big and tough as him. No one was as big and tough as Dad.

She wraps her arms around my little wigglin' body, and holds me as I scream and say things that leave a yucky taste in my mouth. I don't even know what I'm saying. I just can't stop.

I can't breathe.

But she never lets go, even when I hit at her. Even when I say words that I know hurt her.

"You're going to be okay," she says.

"I promise," she tells me.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," she chants over and over and over again.

And she never lets me go.

Even after I stop fighting her.

Even after I stop screaming.

Even when the rain stops.

Even when the sun starts to go down, and it gets all dark in our house.

Momma holds me.

And Dad is still gone.

And later, much later, when I'm tucked into bed, with my headphones over my head, and my CD player all fixed; and Momma's holding me from behind as I stare at the Avengers poster on my wall, my eyes crusty and puffy with no more tears to cry…

I tell myself it'll be okay, just like she did.

It'll be okay, because he will come back.

I just know it.

He'd never leave me. And Momma would never keep him away—she wouldn't survive without him. He said so. I heard him. Not today, but other times. She doesn't want to die, does she?

I just have to be good—be better—be tougher.

I'll show him. I'll be strong and good like Captain America, and he'll come back.

The music blares in my ears, but Momma doesn't make me turn it down this time. She just pets my head, stroking my hair, and holds me tight. And I let her because Dad's not here, and it feels good, and I'm scared the bad scratches and the fast breaths will come back if she lets go.

When the song ends, I hit the back button again, restarting it.

It's my favorite one.

I hum along with it, playing it over and over and over again until I fall asleep, until I can no longer tell the difference between the guy singing in my ears about waking up and dying dreams, music and getting what you give?—

I won't let go.

I won't.

—and my own voice in my head, saying over and over and over again?—

He'll come back.

I won't let go.

I won't give up.

I won't.

I won't.