Chapter 4 #2
I'd rather take a bullet to the head than end up in a place like this. Quick and clean. Over before you knew what happened. Not this slow erosion, this gradual disappearance while your body kept breathing.
The thought came unbidden, cold and certain.
So, what kind of man was I that I'd put my mother here?
A coward. The same kind who couldn't step foot on his father's ranch. Who killed coyotes from a distance and called it protection. Who built weapons because that was easier than building a life.
"Mr. Dane?"
I looked up. The nurse stood nearby, her smile patient, hands clasped in front of her.
"Your mother's ready."
I set the coffee down and stood, following her down a hallway that smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant, the industrial kind that never quite covered the underlying scent of age and illness.
We passed doorways—some open, some closed—glimpses of lives reduced to single rooms and carefully curated routines.
Televisions playing shows no one watched.
Photographs of families who visited less and less. Flowers that were starting to wilt.
She stopped outside the last door on the left, the largest room, the one we'd paid extra for because it had the best view. "She's having a good morning."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure what that meant anymore. Good was relative when the disease had already taken so much.
The room was the biggest in the building.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the desert, light pouring in like something holy, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazy and slow.
Flowers covered every surface—fresh, native blooms in clay pots and glass vases.
Penstemon and desert lupine and Apache plume, delicate and alive, filling the air with subtle fragrance.
And there, sitting in a chair by the window, bathed in morning light, was my mother.
Elaine Dane.
She was still radiant, somehow. More gray threaded through her blonde hair, silver catching the light like spun metal.
Her face was softer than I remembered, lines deepened around her eyes and mouth, skin pale from too much time indoors.
But her posture was straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, and when she turned toward me, she smiled.
Polite. Warm. Distant.
Like I was a stranger who'd wandered into her room by mistake.
"Hello," she said, voice gentle and melodic, the same voice that had read me bedtime stories and sang while she cooked. "Please, come in. Have a seat."
My throat tightened until I could barely breathe.
She didn't know me.
I'd prepared for it—intellectually, at least. The doctors had warned us years ago that the disease would take recognition first, then language, then everything else that made her who she was. Eventually, she'd forget how to eat. How to walk. How to breathe.
But knowing didn't make it easier. Nothing made it easier.
"Hi, Mom."
She tilted her head slightly, still smiling, curious but not distressed. "Mom?"
I sat in the chair across from her, forcing my voice to stay steady, to not break. "Yeah."
She studied me for a moment, something flickering behind her blue eyes—confusion, maybe, or the faint ghost of recognition that wouldn't quite form into memory. Her brow furrowed slightly, like she was trying to place me, trying to remember why this stranger was calling her Mom.
Then it passed like clouds across the sun.
"That's nice," she said gently, graciously. "I'm sorry, I don't think I remember—"
"It's okay."
She nodded, accepting my words with the same gracious politeness she'd brought to everything before the disease.
Politeness had always been her armor, the way she navigated a world that demanded strength without acknowledging the cost. The way she'd hosted dinners for my father's business associates, smiled through rodeo events and church socials, made everyone feel welcome even when she was exhausted.
Now politeness was all she had left. A shield against a confusion she couldn't name.
Part of me—the hard, bitter part that lived in my chest like a fist—wished she were different.
That she'd remember her seven sons had locked her away in this beautiful prison to die.
That she'd yell and rage and make me feel the pain I deserved.
That she'd throw something at me and tell me to get out, tell me I was a coward who'd abandoned her.
But she didn't.
She just sat there, patient and kind, waiting for me to speak.
I gestured toward the flowers on the shelf behind her, desperate for something safe to talk about. "Those are beautiful. Do you know what kind they are?"
Her face brightened immediately, the fog lifting just enough.
"Oh, yes. That one's Apache plume. And those are desert marigolds—see the yellow?
They bloom all summer if you're lucky. And that's penstemon.
The hummingbirds love it. We had them at the ranch.
They'd hover right outside the kitchen window while I did dishes. "
She spoke with certainty, each name clear and precise, her voice stronger than it had been moments ago.
A bird landed on the windowsill outside—small, quick, rust-colored breast bright against gray feathers.
"Pyrrhuloxia," she said softly, smiling at it like greeting an old friend. "They're like cardinals, but softer. See how the red is more muted? More pink than crimson. The males are prettier, but the females are smarter."
The bird hopped once, head cocking, then flew away in a flutter of wings.
I looked down at my hands. Scarred knuckles from fights I shouldn't have started. Calluses from years of building and breaking and holding things too tightly. Burns from welding. Cuts from blades.
These weren't the hands of a good son.
Maybe I shouldn't have come.
Then her hand reached out, fingers wrapping around my forearm with surprising strength, urgent and warm.
"Wyatt," she said, and the sound of my name in her voice hit me like a round to the chest. "What are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to be at the game with Sophie? She's such a sweet girl. I wish you could see how much she likes you. You should bring her by for dinner. I'll make pot roast."
I froze, heart hammering against my ribs.
Sophie.
I hadn't thought about her in years. Hadn't let myself. Couldn't afford to.
"Mom," I said gently, carefully, trying not to shatter whatever fragile thread had brought her back to me, "that was a long time ago."
The words hung in the air between us like smoke.
And I watched—helpless—as the glimmer in her eyes faded. The light that had sparked when she said my name dimmed and went out like a candle snuffed by wind, replaced by the same distant politeness from before.
She let go of my arm and turned back toward the window.
"Pyrrhuloxia," she said again, voice soft and distant. "They're like cardinals, but softer. See how the red is more muted?"
Word for word.
Exactly the same.
My chest tightened until I couldn't breathe, until my ribs felt like they were cracking under pressure I couldn't name.
Stupid. Why couldn't I just play along?
I should've said yes. Should've told her Sophie and I were still friends, that everything was fine, that the life she remembered was still real, still happening somewhere outside this room. It wouldn't have mattered. She wouldn't have remembered five minutes from now, anyway.
But I'd told her the truth.
And the truth had cost me the only moment of recognition I'd get.
We sat like that for the next thirty minutes.
She repeated herself—the flowers, the bird, small observations about the light and the weather, how the desert looked different in morning versus evening.
I responded when appropriate, nodded when she paused, asked questions that gave her something to answer.
Pretended the repetition didn't feel like drowning in shallow water.
She had no concept of time. No sense that she'd already told me these things, that we were caught in a loop neither of us could escape.
And I couldn't take it a minute longer.
When I finally stood, my legs stiff from sitting rigid, she looked up at me with that same polite smile.
"It was nice to meet you," she said warmly. "Thank you for visiting."
I bent down and kissed her forehead, breathing in the faint scent that used to be home. Vanilla from her baking. Sunshine. Love.
"I'll be back soon," I said, the lie burning my throat like swallowed gasoline.
She nodded, already turning back toward the window, the conversation already forgotten, already gone.
I walked out without looking back, couldn't bear to see her sitting there alone in all that light.
At the door, I stopped, closed my eyes, and whispered to whoever might be listening—God, the universe, anyone who gave a damn.
Please. Take her peacefully. She's been through enough.
The hallway was empty. No one at the front desk to ask how the visit went or offer condolences or be kind with their practiced concern.
Good.
I wasn't in the mood for kindness I didn't deserve.
Fuck vacation. I needed to get back to work. My team leader had been direct—don't come back until the clock runs out on three weeks. Standard mandatory leave after extended deployment. Rest and reset. Process and decompress.
Fine. I'd hole up somewhere. Build things. Tools of my trade. Tools for killing. At least working with my hands made sense. At least metal and mechanisms followed rules, didn't forget you, didn't fade away while you watched.
At least, I couldn't disappoint them.
The heat hit me the second I stepped outside, dry and brutal, baking the asphalt until it softened, making the air shimmer like water. I welcomed it. Let it burn away whatever softness had tried to creep in during that visit.
Then I saw him.
A man leaning against my truck, casual as hell, hands visible and empty, posture relaxed.
But his eyes told a different story.
Killer's eyes. Sharp. Alert. The kind that tracked movement before conscious thought, that calculated distances and threat levels automatically.
Just like mine.
I stopped ten feet away, every instinct firing at once, muscle memory taking over. Threat assessment. Escape routes. Weapon in my waistband. "What do you want?"
He straightened slowly, offering a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Wyatt Dane. You come highly recommended."
"I'm on vacation."
His smile widened, like I'd said something funny. "Yeah. I used to feel the same way about mandatory leave. Boring, right? Three weeks of nothing. Sitting around. Thinking too much."
That snapped my focus into place like a rifle bolt sliding home. "Who the hell are you?"
He raised his hands slowly, deliberately, stepping away from the truck to show he wasn't a threat. Yet. "Easy. I come in peace."
"Answer the question."
"You've got a couple weeks on your hands," he said, ignoring me completely. "Why not do something with them?"
"Like what?"
"Come to Charleston."
I stared at him. "Charleston."
"South Carolina. Beautiful city. Good food. Better company. All expenses paid."
"For what?"
"There might be a new opportunity in it for you."
I studied him—military bearing, confident without being cocky, the kind of calm that came from seeing too much and surviving it, anyway.
Probably mid thirties. Fit. Moved like someone who knew how to handle himself.
"You a spook? I've never heard of the Agency working out of Charleston, but you don't exactly publish every safehouse on Craigslist."
He laughed, genuine amusement lighting his face. "Not a spook. Not exactly."
Then he held out a card, producing it from nowhere like a magic trick, the movement so smooth I almost missed it.
I took it, turning it over. Heavy card stock. Expensive. Embossed text: Dominion Hall. A Charleston address beneath it. Nothing else. No phone number. No website. No explanation.
"Name's Micah," he said. "There's a plane ticket waiting in your email. Hope to see you there tomorrow."
Then he turned and walked away, disappearing around the building like he'd never been there at all.
Part of me wanted to follow him. Grab him by the shoulder. Demand answers. Tell him to fuck off. Throw the card in the dirt and drive back to Fayetteville, back to the workshop where at least things made sense.
But I didn't.
I stood there in the heat, staring at the card in my hand, feeling its weight, thinking about three weeks of nothing.
Thinking about my mother who didn't know my face but remembered every flower in West Texas.
Thinking about the ranch I couldn't visit and the coyotes I'd kill tonight because it was the only thing I knew how to do anymore.
I looked at the card again.
Dominion Hall.
Charleston.
What harm could a trip to Charleston make?
I climbed into the truck and drove.