Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
T he floor was dirty. Strands of dark hair stuck to the bars in front of George. His pockets were empty. They’d taken his matchbooks.
He wanted them back. He’d made plans.
His time in prison kept him from their heat, their sparks that made his insides sing. He needed a new playground, a new castle of his own making.
At eight years old, he remembered following his uniformed father through a blackened forest, over the soft grey ash surrounding them.
He’d been forced to plant baby trees, a consequence of the fire he set in a state park.
Community service. They thought it would fix him.
He only thought about how he’d burn the trees when they got tall.
Inside his pockets, the matches never stilled. Their whispers never quieted. They demanded freedom.
At fourteen, George’s matches took the Quick Mart on the corner. Someone saw him do it. His dad took him to the station.
Time for you to face consequences, son.
He could still hear his mother crying at his sentencing.
Forced to wear pants with no pockets, the music in his head diminished.
They sent him to a working teen ranch in the middle of nowhere, one with boys like him, all damned to hell.
He returned home at seventeen. Mother welcomed him back with tears and open arms. Two days later, Dad drove him to the bus station.
“I’m running for mayor of Gray Mountain. I plan to win. I can’t have you causing trouble for my campaign.”
He’d handed him a one-way ticket and a piece of paper with an address on it.
“I’ve enrolled you in a state run employment program for young men like you. A friend of mine found you a job in Evers Hollow that qualifies for the program. You’ll learn skills that will help you find a job after your probation ends. I’ve got a deputy in Evers Hollow that’ll monitor you.”
The bus ride took over an hour. It dropped him off in a small mountain town. The deputy, a Darin Hutchins, met him at the bus station. The cop studied him with a sneer before taking him to the group home he’d live in. Nosing into his business, like his father.
George saw the most beautiful girl on his third day there. Hair black as soot, pearl-like skin, she stood across the street from the stretch of lawn he cut. Music rushed into his head. It replaced the silence drilled inside his mind.
She’d be his. He’d find a way.
A buzzer sounded. The small jail’s main door swung open. A younger cop came into view, a blonde woman. She carried a chair. He grinned at her from inside his cell. “Such a pretty morsel. Come to keep me company?”
She didn’t smile, gave him a hard stare. “You’ve got a visitor.”
A visitor. He stood. Could it be his Maggie?
Blondie placed the chair in front of his cell. “Keep your hands in your own space.”
She stepped back, motioned with her hand. “Come on in, ma’am. I’ll be just outside. Call for me when you’re done.”
It wasn’t his Maggie. Long, stringy red hair. Fire girl?
No.
He took a better look. The hair was a wig. Even with the fake hair and a solid layer of make-up, he recognized his half-sister’s skinny body, her pinch-tight expression. She took a seat.
“Hello George. I see you’re in trouble again.”