Chapter Six
Jack
T here’s something poking me in the back. And it feels like there is a spotlight pointed directly at my face. I blink awake, disoriented for a second—then I remember. The creek. The bakery girl. The empty bank account.
And then it hits. The reality of my situation. I’m sleeping in my truck bed in the middle of nowhere. I sit up and rub my hand down my face. It takes me a second to focus.
Okay, things could definitely be worse. The creek gurgles nearby. Tall grass and thick trees surround me. It’s peaceful. The kind of place Mom would’ve loved. This is the kind of place we would drive an hour to camp at. And fish.
“Dammit,” I mutter to myself.
I should have brought my fishing pole. That would solve the food problem. Not that I want to live on fish alone, but I’m a damn good fisherman. Just thinking about pan-fried fish over the fire makes me hungry. Shit, I’ve been hungry for two days.
I get out of the sleeping bag and hop out of the back of the truck. I walk into the trees and take a leak, inhaling the fresh scent of the trees. I could definitely see myself hanging out here for a while. Assuming I can get my hands on a fishing pole.
I walk over the creek and bend down, cupping my hands and splashing my face with the cold water. I look around, getting my bearings in the daylight. The creek is wider than I thought, maybe fifteen feet across, with clear water rushing over smooth stones. Perfect for trout. The trees are thick around me, providing good cover from the road. No wonder no one bothered me last night.
I follow the creek a little ways, listening to birds calling overhead. There’s something peaceful about this spot that reminds me of the back forty on our farm where I used to escape when chores were done. When Dad couldn’t find me to pile on more work.
“Not my problem anymore,” I mutter, but there’s a hollow feeling in my chest that I can’t quite shake.
I spot a fallen log by the water’s edge and sit down. The morning sun filters through the leaves. It’s beautiful, sure, but beauty doesn’t fill an empty stomach or put gas in the tank.
Reality crashes back in. I’ve got maybe enough gas to get to the edge of town and back. A few bucks in my pocket. And a bag of pastries that won’t last the day.
I head back to the truck and grab the paper bag. Breakfast of champions—a slightly squished cinnamon roll and what looks like half a loaf of sourdough bread. I tear off a chunk of the bread and chew slowly, trying to make it last.
“What now, Jack?” I ask myself.
I chew and think. Think and chew.
I grab my phone from the truck and call Michael. I’m assuming he’s probably in the barn, hopefully away from my father.
“Are you on your way back?” He answers the phone with a question.
“No.”
“Dad’s pissed,” he says.
I snort. “When isn’t he?”
“No, I mean really pissed. Like, ‘threatening to report the truck stolen’ pissed.”
My stomach twists. “He wouldn’t.”
“You sure about that?”
I’m not. Not even a little.
“He took all my fucking money,” I growl.
“What do you mean?” Michael asks.
“I went to get money from the ATM yesterday, and it was gone. All of it,” I explain. “Every penny I’ve saved from the hardware store. The only reason that would happen is if Dad called in a favor at the bank.”
Michael is quiet for a second. “Shit, Jack.”
“Yeah.” I lean against the truck, suddenly exhausted despite having just woken up. “So now I’m broke. And apparently driving a stolen truck.”
“It’s not stolen. It’s yours. We all know that.”
“Tell that to the cops when Dad reports it.”
Michael sighs. “He won’t. He’s just...you know how he gets. He wants to scare you into coming home.”
“Well, it’s working,” I admit. “Not the coming home part. The scared part.”
“Where are you?”
I hesitate. “Some town in Illinois. I slept in the truck last night.”
“Shit, Jack.” Michael’s voice drops. “Look, I can wire you some money. Not much, but enough to get you a motel for a few nights. Figure things out.”
The offer is tempting—so tempting I almost say yes immediately. But something stops me.
“No,” I say firmly. “I can’t take your money.”
“Don’t be stupid—”
“I’m not being stupid. I’m being...” I search for the word. “Independent.”
Michael laughs. “Yeah, sleeping in your truck. Real independent.”
He argues with me for another ten minutes, but I don’t budge. “Fine. But if you starve to death in a ditch, I’m gonna be real annoyed.” Michael sounds pissed, but I also hear a sense of pride in his voice. Yeah, I’m not making rational decisions, but it’s a decision. I know I’ll figure something out.
I grin despite myself. “Noted.”
When I hang up, the quiet feels heavier.
I should look for work today. Should drive into town, ask around, scrape together enough for gas to get to the next place. I’m sure I can find some work as a day laborer. Farms are always looking for guys like me to do some grunt work. I could easily make a hundred bucks. Cold, hard, cash. That’s a good meal and another tank of gas.
But the thought exhausts me.
I need one day. One day to just breathe , and then I’ll figure it out. I’ve been working every day of my life since I was a kid. Living on a farm is all about work—even on Sundays. When Mom was alive, we’d get up early to do chores, go to church and usually have a big meal, but once we got home, there were always more chores to do.
I pull out my backpack and carry it to the tailgate. Inside, there’s a stack of photos, a few letters, and Mom’s necklace.
I spread the mementos of my mother and a life that feels like it was a million years ago out on the tailgate.
The first photo is all of us—Mom, Dad, Michael, Caleb, me—standing in front of the farmhouse. I’m maybe ten, grinning like an idiot. Dad’s hand is on my shoulder. He’s smiling. Caleb is scowling. Michael looks like Gumby—all arms and legs.
It’s such a foreign concept to see Dad smiling. I honestly don’t think he’s smiled since Mom got sick. I can still remember the sound of Mom’s laugh, loud and full-throated, ringing through the house. I must have been nine or so. Michael and Caleb were trying to teach me how to play poker, which was really just an excuse for them to take my allowance. Mom caught us, and instead of getting mad, she pulled up a chair.
“Deal me in,” she’d said, her eyes twinkling.
Dad was there too, leaning against the wall, watching with this half-smile that I’d forgotten about until just now. He wasn’t scowling or barking orders. He was just...present. Happy.
Mom cleaned us all out in less than an hour.
“Never play cards with a gambler’s daughter, boys,” she’d said.
We’d laughed until our sides hurt.
That was before. Before the doctor visits started. Before the hushed conversations behind closed doors. Before I found Mom crying in the bathroom one night, clumps of her beautiful auburn hair in her hands.
I remember how music filled the house back then. Mom was always playing something on the radio in the kitchen while she cooked. She didn’t listen to just one kind of music. Sometimes, she’d be banging her head to some eighties metal hair band. Other times, she’d be crooning to Patsy Cline. Mom loved music—all of it. At night, she’d put on jazz and rock back and forth as she knitted a sweater for one of us boys.
She rarely watched TV unless it was some cheesy musical. Oklahoma . She loved that movie. We all hated it, but honestly, I often found myself feeling nostalgic and watching clips of it when I lay in bed at night.
I pick up another photo. This one is just Mom and me. I’m sitting on her lap with my toy guitar, strumming away while she beams at the camera. I was maybe five. She’d gotten me that plastic guitar for Christmas, and I’d carried it everywhere for months.
“You’re going to be a star someday, Jackie,” she’d said, ruffling my hair. “Just wait and see.”
I wonder what she’d think of me now. Sleeping in my truck, broke and lost. Would she still believe in me? Or would she tell me to swallow my pride and go home?
No. She’d understand. She always did.
I pull out her necklace. The tiny silver guitar catches the morning light. I slip it over my head, tucking it under my shirt. It’s not exactly manly, but sometimes, I wear it. When I need to feel close to her, I put it on.
“I’m trying, Mom,” I whisper. “I really am.”
My fingers brush another picture—one I didn’t mean to bring. I groan and seriously consider tossing it. The picture was of me in my goofy suit. It wasn’t even my suit. It had been Caleb’s. The pantlegs were too short, and the jacket looked like I was wearing a box.
It was at my eighth grade school picture. I remember it like it was yesterday. Eighth grade had been horrible for me. That’s when shit really got bad with the bullying. I’d grown a good three inches that year. The boys hated me, but the girls thought it was cool.
Aiden Miller. The asshole had shoved me against the lockers, his breath hot and sour in my face. “Stay away from her, farm boy.”
I didn’t even know who he was talking about. Just some girl who asked me about homework. But Aiden’s fists didn’t care about details.
The memory stings. Not just the punches—the way Dad had looked at me afterward, my split lip and black eye. “You let him do that?” Like I’d chosen to lose.
I shove the photo back in the box.
The worst memory comes uninvited.
Ten years ago. One of the calves got tangled in barbed wire. By the time we found her, her leg was shredded.
Dad didn’t hesitate. Just grabbed the rifle.
“It’s kinder,” he said.
I threw up afterward. Not from the blood—from the way Dad shrugged, like it was nothing. Just another Tuesday.
Mom found me behind the barn. She didn’t say anything. Just sat with me, her arm around my shoulders, until I stopped shaking.
“You don’t have to be like him,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. Not to Dad. He couldn’t understand why it hurt me so much. Why I just felt like I wasn’t meant to be on that farm forever. I liked it well enough, but I could not see myself ever doing that for the next fifty years. It just wasn’t me.
The last photo is my favorite. Mom’s sitting on the porch steps, her guitar in her lap, showing me a chord. I’m maybe six, my tiny fingers struggling to stretch across the strings. My guitar was my connection to my mom. Music is how I remembered her the best. Every year that passed without her, the harder it got to remember the little things about her. But when I had my guitar in my hand, it was like yesterday.
I pull out my notebook, the one I’ve been scribbling lyrics in for years. The pages are dog-eared, some stained with coffee or dirt.
A melody tugs at the back of my mind—something sad and sweet. It’s more of a feeling than actual words. But the words always come if I let them.
I start writing.
Red dirt roads and rusted gates,
Promises I couldn’t keep.
You said I’d learn to love this place,
But all I loved was you.
It’s not great. But it’s honest.
I strum a few chords, testing the words.
For the first time in months, I don’t feel lost.
Just alone.
And maybe that’s okay.