47-Kit
For the first time in days my chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in.
My ears pop as we crest the top of the wooded bluffs, but it’s nothing to have this view.
Zach called it the Driftless Area, explaining with a quiet, reverent pride that glaciers skipped this region entirely, leaving behind a landscape untouched by the usual violence of time.
Hills don’t just rise and fall; bluffs tower like ancient sentries, the river valley cutting through their center with a silver, serpentine grace.
I’ve counted eleven bald eagles in the last half hour, four of which I spotted on my own once Zach gave me a crash course in what to look for within the thinning canopies.
I understand why they’re the nation’s bird; there’s something unapologetically majestic about them, a presence that makes the sky feel tiny in contrast.
Their wings slice through the sky with an effortless authority, like they’re born knowing how to command the air while the rest of us are still trying to figure out how to stand upright. Another one passes overhead, and I can almost imagine what it would be like to feel that free.
I’ve spent my whole life pretending I know how to fly, but I’ve only ever been gliding.
Because even here in this impossible landscape, I make out Yensil’s SUV in the rearview mirror. He keeps a respectful distance, of course. But his presence is a constant reminder that sits at the edge of my awareness. Zach and I aren’t truly alone. We can’t be, not with who I am.
I wish he’d disappear for an hour, so I can pretend I’m just a man in a car with a woman who makes the world feel less bleak.
I’d let myself look at her the way I want to.
Express my feelings without the shadow of responsibility trailing behind us like a second set of headlights. But that’s not our reality.
So, I watch the eagles and pretend the freedom above us is something I can touch one day.
Even in Arcadia, hope grows wild.
I let out a soft, incredulous snicker as we pass the modest wood sign, reveling in its mythical symmetry.
Arcadia is charming, with a handful of stoplights, one petrol station, and the familiar yellow arches of a fast-food chain that infests every corner of this country.
We drive past a general store, then a small park with a rusted swing set.
Once we pass the baseball diamond with grass grown too tall, the town abruptly ends.
Zach turns onto a gravel road, the tyres crunching as a dust cloud rises behind us. Fifteen minutes later, we pull into a narrow driveway, veins of weeds poking through cracks in the broken cement. Yensil eases his SUV to a stop on the shoulder.
We’re parked in front of a quaint bungalow, whose sky-blue paint is chipped and peeling in thin ribbons. The lawn is trimmed, every blade of grass the same height, and dormant lilac bushes are clipped with the kind of precision you only get from someone who has too much time on their hands.
To the left, a flag-stoned path winds around the house to a small, glassy lake; still water reflecting the sunny sky. Atop a smooth-curving slope stands a willow tree, its branches cascading like a curtain of green silk.
I freeze. It’s not identical, but close enough.
Long sweeping branches move like dancing fingers leading back to a realm where the sky never makes sense, and the ground quivers.
Resentment claws up my throat before I can shove it back down.
The god carved his presence into me so deeply that even a tree on a quiet lakeshore is a reminder, following me in the shape of a willow.
“Home sweet home,” Zach murmurs, her forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
“I thought you lived in LA,” I say, immediately regretting it because that’s easily the daftest thing I’ve ever said. “I mean, it’s well-kempt.”
“I haven’t been inside since I cleaned it out after my dad died.” She lets out a brittle half laugh, lifting her chin toward the house. “Steve, Nicole’s dad, has been keeping it up for me. I pay him, but I’m pretty sure he just donates the money.”
She steps out of the car and walks to the front stoop. Bending down, she lifts the corner of the welcome mat and retrieves a key. I choke on a strangled swallow as I get out, digging into my pocket for a cigarette.
“You cannot be serious.” I pull out two, offering her one as I approach the stoop. “That’s an open invitation to be burgled and/or murdered.”
She snorts, retrieving a lighter from her snowy-grey joggers. “Relax. The worst thing that’s ever tried to break in here is a raccoon.”
“That’s not comforting.”
I lean forward, cigarette between my lips, and inhale as she lights the tip. The first drag settles in my lungs. We stand in silence as the space fills with a hazy quiet, allowing room for my thoughts to blare.
I can’t shake the thought that she grew up surviving things no one should’ve had to. All the horrid shit that happened to her here lingers; the ghosts of her past pressed against the bloody windows as her reflection catches on the glass.
Taking another drag, the last of the smoke rolls from my lungs as I pinch the spark from its filter. Pocketing the dirty butt, I shove my hands into my joggers, trying to stare anywhere but at her mouth, failing miserably.
The stillness fortifies, heavy with everything we refuse to say.
Her cigarette burns down as she inhales, the ember flaring bright at the tip, like a tiny sun blooming between her fingers.
It glows hot orange, then deepens to molten red, the paper curling in on itself as it tries to escape the heat.
It creeps downward in a perfect little ring, turning white paper to brittle grey ash, the edge glowing just before it gives way.
Smoke coils out of her nose in two thin streams. Ashes gather at the tip of the cigarette, trembling with every drag as they cling on. Gravity wins. They drop, scattering to the concrete like grimy snowflakes.
Like that cig, each moment I’m with her is balanced on the edge of a tiny flaming ring.
She smokes as though it’s the only thing keeping her tethered.
Tossing the lit butt to the ground, Zach smashes it with her trainer.
The single silver key glints from a flimsy ring she twirls around her pointer.
She unlocks the scuffed eggshell door and pushes it open, tossing a haunted look over her shoulder.
I follow, shutting it behind me.
Chills crawl up my spine, as if the house senses our presence.
Through the frosted glass of the door, I catch a glimpse of Yensil standing guard outside his car.
The foyer is small, the beige square tiles throughout a bit scuffed, but the grout’s clean.
A boxy living room opens up just beyond it, completely empty.
Four walls, a cream carpet, and the faint echo of a life that used to fill it.
A sliding glass door sits on the far side of the carpet, the frame newer than everything else in here.
It catches rays from the sunlit lake, making the rest of the room seem buried.
The kitchen is just off it, separated by a long, skinny bar that’s seen better days.
Dark wood cabinets hang chipped at the corners, worn from years of hands opening and closing them, but they’re clean.
The narrow hallway stretches off to my right, smelling of dust and stale air. Not mildew or rot, simply nothing. No scents of old meals or overused perfume, things that give homes their warmth.
“It’s a tomb,” Zach whispers, the crack in her voice like the snap of a whip in the barren house.
Air sizzles from my lungs. God, she’s wrecked, trying to hold herself together in a place that never held her at all.
Her hair is scraped up into a messy bun that’s barely hanging on, curls escaping in an attempt to shield her face.
The sleeves of her knitted navy jumper are too long; cuffs worn and unravelling.
She’s plain-faced, stripped as though this place peeled her down to the version of herself she never lets anyone see.
It’s the girl she must’ve been within these walls; one who learned to stay quiet and out of the way in order to survive whatever hell was thrown at her.
Every empty corner holds the resonance of something terrible she had to carry.
The weight of it still shows in the hunch of her shoulders and rapid blinks, as if she’s willing the memories to keep from surfacing.
I want to reach for her, but I’m terrified I’ll shatter what little strength she has left. My heart aches for her helplessly, going stiff and furious but unbearably tender all at once.
I’ll scorch the bloody fucking house if it means she never has to feel like this again.
“Why not sell it?” I ask, planting my heels to the tiles to keep from scooping her into my arms.
She crosses the living room and unlatches the sliding door. The track is stiff from disuse, screeching as she shoves it open with her shoulder. I follow her out onto the raised patio, letting the crisp, clean air flare through my nostrils.
After weeks of exhaust, sewage, and stale corridors city after city, the freshness of pine and lake water is a shock to my blackened lungs. It sits on my tongue, dry and sweet, like biting into an apple straight from the tree.
“Christ,” I mutter, a loose board bowing beneath my trainers, about to snap apart.
A black scorch mark stains the mouldy wood in the perfect rectangular outline of a grill, as if its contents had poured over the sides at one point. Scuffs dig into the planks where chairs scraped back and forth one too many times.
Signs of life, but not recent; resonance without presence.
There’s a ramp instead of stairs, leading the way to the lake.
It stretches out in front of us, glassy and still, catching the sun in glittering shards.
Pine trees crowd the far bank, their reflections trembling on the surface.
A chocolate-brown horse grazes behind a wire fence on the other side, tail flicking lazily, completely unbothered.