Chapter 8 Present
I am thirty-three now, and after all these years later, I still wake up in a cold sweat. I can’t escape them—those summer nights. The excitement and the heat. It’s always the same: blissful dreams I ache for, followed by the nightmares that won’t let me go.
Sometimes, I long for sleep to take me back—just for one more glimpse of what we once had. It’s strange, and maybe a kind of self-inflicted punishment, but I’d do anything to go back to those days, even if only as a memory.
But unfortunately, the nightmare of having to face the truth is about to become my reality. What I’m walking into doesn’t offer that kind of mercy.
…
I was having a hard time figuring out where to begin.
Normally, when I write these kinds of stories, I go straight to the source: sit down, ask questions, listen.
But that trick wasn’t going to work this time.
Not with him. I should’ve known better, given the subject.
Still, I’ve never walked away from an assignment, and I’m not about to start now. Especially not here.
I ran through my options and started in town — the very place I’d so deliberately avoided on my way in.
After grabbing my bag and notepad, I stepped out and made my way toward The Lakeview Ledger — Shay’s proud source of “truth.” If there was anywhere to start piecing this story together, it was the place that printed half-truths and used small-town gossip as a reliable informant.
I turned onto Founder’s Court, and the tightening in my chest returned.
I must’ve circled the square a dozen times.
Maybe I was searching for a better parking spot—or maybe I was just delaying the inevitable.
I didn’t know who I’d run into or what I was going to find.
But with my gas gauge dipping below a comfortable line, I finally pulled into a space across from the newspaper office.
The lines in the parking lot—like most things in Shay—were crooked and fading. As I brought the car to a stop, I took a deep breath, opened the door, and was yet again suffocated by the Alabama heat and the memories of the summer of ’65.