Where the Black Line Ends

Prologue

Reed

12 years old

“ So, do you love it?”

My mother towers over me, her hand pressed to my shoulder as I cradle the wooden handle of a switchblade. A Diamondback mountain bike, a VR headset, six packs of football cards, and a pair of Nike Air Force 1s form a U-shape among a pile of wrapping paper scraps surrounding me.

I run my thumb down the dark walnut, studying the smooth texture and brushing over initials carved near the butt of the handle— SM .

I lift my gaze and find my father watching me from across the living room, his shoulder tipped against the arched entrance. A smile stretches across his face—something resembling pride—as he pushes off the wall and strides toward me.

“Yeah, son. What do you think?”

By the way he’s looking at me, I think it must mean something to him. I stare down at my gift, and my eyebrows sink into a deep V .

“SM?” I say as he stops in front of me.

“Samuel Morgan. It was your grandfather’s.”

I look up again and find him smiling at the pocketknife.

Do I ask him about it? We don’t talk about personal things like this, but I’m curious. Grandpa Morgan is a man I never met. At least not that I can remember. He died of a heart attack when I was three.

How old was Grandpa Morgan when he got it?

Did he carve his own initials into the handle?

When did he gift it to my dad?

Dozens of questions swirl in my mind, but I get stuck on one: Why did my dad gift it to me? I’m not even the oldest.

With the sun spilling through the front windows, the sliver of metal wedged between the wooden exterior glints. I press the release button, deploying the blade. The sight of it takes me back to the beginning of the summer when I met my best friend, Miles. We spent nearly every day fishing off the dock between our cabins. Whenever a line snagged on the bottom of the lake, he’d use the razor edge of his pocketknife to cut it free.

I smile at the memory.

“I think that’s a yes,” she says, pointing to my face.

“Oh.” I startle, my daydream turning to smoke. “I do.”

“That’s good because I have one last surprise,” he adds.

By anyone else’s standards, getting showered with gifts on your birthday is something to celebrate. For me, it feels like an ordinary day. A new video game left on the counter on a Friday night with a note that says Have fun . An automatic pitcher because my dad isn’t around to play catch. An Apple Watch to reach us if they need anything. My parents use material possessions to cover up the fact that they work all the time.

They own a family practice law firm with our neighbors, the Browns, and have made it their life’s mission to help other people through their problems. Yet somehow, they miss the ones right under their roof. Like the fact that I’ve spent most of my life feeling invisible to them. I could do what’s expected of me or say the right thing and it’s not until I do something reckless that they pay attention.

But today is different.

Today I think things are destined to change.

Because today, they surprise me with the kind of attention I never expected.

“You and I are going camping this weekend!” Dad thrusts his arms out wide with his announcement.

I fumble the open pocketknife but steady it before it clatters to my bare feet.

Camping? We’ve never been camping before.

My parents bought a cabin in Bear Lake at the beginning of the summer. It was the closest thing to ever come to that, but it had cell service. They could still work there. Camping’s different. No phones, no distractions.

“Just the two of us?” I gape at him, trying to imagine it… No Rex, no Ronny.

“Yep. Just me and you, kid.” He claps a hand on my back, and I jump up to hug him. Of all the gifts that have ever made their way into this three-story house, this is the best one I’ve ever been given.

“Woah!” He backs away from the open blade that’s swinging near his face.

“Sorry.” I cringe. I disengage the lock with my thumb and fold the sharp edge back into its safety position.

My dad’s voice remains playful, but his expression slips into a semi-stern glare. “Don’t make me regret trusting you with that.”

“Yes, sir.” I salute him. “I promise; I won’t.”

“Good. Well, we better start packing. We need to be on the road in an hour if we want our tent set up by nightfall. ”

I shove the switchblade in the front pocket of my basketball shorts and leap from the couch cushion toward my bedroom.

I picture it. A whole weekend away, just me and him. His undivided attention. Time to tell him about all the things that I love.

It’s going to be the best weekend of my life.

A camping trip I’ll never forget.