Chapter 36
SCOTT: THE WALKING DEAD
In the beginning, there had been a purpose to my walking: find Jake.
That was all. Staying home and waiting felt like a betrayal.
Movement became the only thing that made sense.
Every day, I walked until my feet blistered and my calves burned.
I followed roadways, cut through sand dunes and dry riverbeds, trespassed into abandoned buildings on the concrete outskirts of town.
As long as there was air in my lungs, I kept moving.
Because Jake was out there somewhere, and I’d promised Michelle I’d bring him home.
Walking became more than searching. It was survival.
The only way I knew to quiet my mind long enough to sleep—short of stealing Michelle’s medication—was to exhaust myself completely, to walk until my feet ached and my thoughts slowed, until I was too tired to picture Jake’s fear.
Too tired to imagine what he might be enduring.
I’d felt something similar once, years ago, stuck in a stranger’s car, every instinct in me screaming.
I’d been lucky; I’d gotten out. After Jake was taken, that memory came back hard and often.
Because now he was somewhere with that same horrible feeling—only there was no door handle, no red light, no moment when he could decide to run.
And that was the thought that kept me walking. One foot in front of the other. God, I was tired. But no. Not yet. Another mile. Maybe two. Then I’d go home. Collapse. Maybe if I wore myself down enough, I’d sleep through the night.
And if I didn’t—
The nights were long and fractured. I’d wake up gasping, my heart racing as the sheets twisted tight in my fists.
In those early morning hours, I’d turn the blame inward, asking myself how I could have been so na?ve.
I’d let Jake move through the world with confidence, let him believe it was safe.
I should have prepared him for what lived beneath the surface, should have warned him to fight harder and trust less.
Somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself this seaside town with its laid-back living and sun-bleached calm was a safe place to raise children.
I’d let them roam, ride bikes, skate the sidewalks, just like my mother had let me.
And if that was a mistake, then it was mine.
Up ahead, a car pulled off the main road and onto the shoulder.
Tires crunched over gravel, raising dust and forcing me to walk through it.
As I approached on the passenger side, the window rolled down, and I stopped cold.
No. It couldn’t be. The man had my face, just older.
My father. And worse, he looked good—fit and healthy, like someone who’d turned his life around, maybe even built a whole new family.
And all it cost him was leaving me behind.
“No,” I said, my heart pounding. “No.”
“I saw on the news about your son. About… my grandson. I’m so sorry.”
Years of pent-up rage erupted. “He’s nothing to you. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
My father flinched. Good. Whatever pain he felt had stopped mattering to me a long time ago. I shot him one last look and moved past the car, my walk breaking into a jog, then a sprint.
But he followed.
The car rolled alongside me.
“Three minutes,” he called out. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“For what?”
“To talk.”
“Talk?” A bitter laugh tore out of me. “You’ve got nerve.”
The memory of his betrayal put a fire under my already-dead legs. I pushed on with whatever dignity I had left. The car passed me again and pulled onto the shoulder. He stepped out and walked straight toward me.
“I wouldn’t,” I warned, my hands already curling into fists. “I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
“That’s just it,” he said, meeting my stare. “You have everything to lose.”
I closed the distance until we were inches apart.
“Get in your car,” I said. “Before I put my fist through your skull.”
He took several cautious steps back until his back was against the car.
“Hit me if it helps. I deserve it. But, Scott, this walking has to stop. Go home. Your family needs you.”
I slammed him into the car door. The metal thudded, and I pinned him there, my grip locked tight.
“Have you been following me?”
“Not following,” he said. “Just concerned.”
“Concerned?” I scoffed. “You’re about twenty-eight years too late for that.”
He nodded once. “I know. What I did to you was unforgivable, and I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to win you back. I’m trying to save you.”
“From what?”
“Becoming me.”
“Oh,” I laughed bitterly. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Just like you with the walking, I went too far and couldn’t find my way back. I’m afraid you’re heading down the same road.”
“I’d rather die first.”
“Scott, please,” he said, hands raised. “Just listen to me for one second.”
“No. You listen to me.” I shoved him against the car again. “I’m more of a man—more of a father—than you’ll ever be.”
He watched me calmly. “Are you?”
“It’s not hard,” I said through clenched teeth. “All I had to do to be better than you was not leave.”
“Not yet.”
“Not ever.”
“You say that now,” he said, “but the farther you get from the people you love, the easier it is to keep going. I know.”
My hands twitched with the urge to hit him, to shut him up for good.
“You’re already doing it, Scott,” he said. “Just like I did. You think I didn’t start walking away long before I packed a bag? Open your eyes. You’ve already got one foot out the door.”
I hated that there was some truth in that. With every mile behind me, I felt less tethered.
But no. I knew who my people were.
I leaned in. “I will never be you.”
“Prove it,” he said.
I backed away until there was a safe distance. Then I turned and walked—only this time in the right direction. Toward home. Toward my wife. Toward the children I could still reach.
I wasn’t him.
I wasn’t my father.
History would not repeat itself.
I knew something was wrong the second I stepped inside.
Not the obvious wrong; not the kind that screamed.
This was quieter than that. The house had always been cluttered when Michelle ran it—piles of mail, shoes by the door, a half-dozen projects going at once—but it was clean. Lived in. Alive. This wasn’t that.
The sink was full. Not a dish or two, but full.
Plates stacked at odd angles, glasses cloudy with residue.
The trash sat by the back door in black bags that had been tied, then abandoned.
The blinds were drawn in every room, shutting out the light like it wasn’t welcome anymore.
The air felt stale and heavy, like the house itself had stopped breathing.
A house for the dead.
This was what happened when the center gave out. When the people who held everything together collapsed under the weight of it all. Michelle and I had let this happen.
I found Grace and Quinn in front of the TV.
Just propped there. Eyes glassy. I crossed the room and knelt in front of them, pulling both into my arms. Grace melted into the hug, but Quinn was distant.
It struck me how much he’d changed. He wasn’t the rambunctious, war-mongering toy general anymore.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him smile.
I pulled back and looked at my two youngest. “I love you guys.”
Grace said it back. Quinn didn’t.
“Who’s hungry?” I asked, forcing brightness into my voice.
Quinn shot me a look that was way too angry and defiant for a six-year-old. “I already made it.”
“You made food?”
He nodded. “For Grace and me. ‘Cuz no one else would.”
My heart twisted, and for one ugly second, all I could think was, Thank god for my deadbeat dad bringing me home.
I slid my fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m gonna do better.”
He nodded absently, not listening, maybe not believing, and returned his focus to the TV.
“Hey,” I said. “I have to talk to Mom real fast, but after, how about we go outside and I push you on the tire swing?”
“Don’t bother,” Quinn said. “Emma already did.”
“So?” I poked him in the side. “Is there some law against swinging twice?”
Quinn shrugged, but I could tell he was tempted.
“Give me twenty minutes,” I said. “Then I’m gonna swing you so high, you’ll be in nosebleed territory.”
That’s when I got my smile.
“Where’s Mom?”
“With Kyle.”
I raised a brow as I headed down the hall. Quietly, I pushed the door open and heard them talking. Instinctively, I shut it again. If ever two people needed each other, it was Michelle and Kyle.
I went back to the kids. “Change of plans. Bloody noses start now!”
For a brief, beautiful moment, our backyard came back to life—kids squealing and laughing, carefree. I wished I could freeze it there.
Once Quinn and Grace were settled with something that required their brains, I grabbed a notepad and started writing.
Moving through the rooms, I cataloged the damage.
Jammed drawer. Leaky faucet. Overflowing laundry.
Bills piling up. The list kept growing. We were a family running on empty.
This wasn’t about grief anymore. This was about survival.
I’d just made it back to the kitchen, my thoughts finally aligning into something resembling a plan, when the back door swung open.
“Dad?” Emma said, stopping short, clearly not expecting me.
She looked exhausted. Worried. And how could I blame her? Somewhere along the way, she’d become the parent in this family—a single parent. A teen mom without the mistakes that usually come with it.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said, reaching for her. “How’s my girl?”
Her eyes filled instantly. She stepped forward and threw herself into my arms. Emma had never been much of a cuddler, but she clung now, face buried against my shirt, and I held her longer than she’d ever let me when she was still little enough to need it.
I whispered assurances in her ear, and when she finally pulled back, her face was wet.
“Not good,” she said. “It’s been an eventful morning.”
“What happened?”
“Kyle cut his hair off with a knife. I woke Mom up and told her to get her ass out of bed and deal with it. Quinn is scarred for life. And Keith is black and blue and passed out in the car.”
“My god.” I paused. “Is Grace, at least, okay?”
“Well,” she said, dryly, “Quinn fed her a hot dog bologna sandwich, so the jury’s still out on that.”
I shook my head, letting the full weight of it settle in—what I’d left her to carry. It wasn’t fair, and it ended now.
“Hey,” I said, drying her cheeks with my fingers. “I’m so sorry. Things change today. I promise.”
She searched my face. “Please, Dad. Please make that be true.”
“It is,” I said. “From today forward, I’m here. With you.”
She nodded, another tear slipping free.
“So,” I said. “Where do we start?”
Emma exhaled. “With the stoner in the car.”
In the driveway, Keith was slumped in the passenger seat, his face visibly swollen, hands wrapped, and body unresponsive except for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“How did this happen?” I asked.
Emma filled me in without drama. Dealer. Money owed. Running on fumes and bad decisions. I listened, but my mind was already moving ahead, assessing the damage and lining up next steps. Together we got Keith inside and into his room. Once he was on the bed, I turned to Emma.
“You did good,” I said. “I’ve got it from here. Go rest.”
She didn’t argue, just leaned into me for a second, and I felt how much she’d been carrying. Too much for a kid. Too much for anyone.
After she left, I checked Keith’s breathing and made sure his pulse was strong. Relief came first; then anger; then resolve. I grabbed a first aid kit and started dressing his wounds. One fire at a time. One kid at a time. You don’t fix the whole house when the kitchen’s on fire.
And when I was done, I stood there and understood something clearly: I couldn’t walk this off. I couldn’t wait it out. And I couldn’t do it alone.
I pulled out my phone. Mitch picked up on the first ring.
“Dad?”
Everything sat inside that word. Hope. Fear. Longing. That’s what it’s like when your life waits on one call.
“We haven’t found him yet.”
“Oh.” The disappointment was immediate.
“Mitch,” I said, “I need you.”
No hesitation. “I’m coming.”
The call ended, and I squared my shoulders. This was bigger than one extra pair of hands. I needed a village.
I dialed the next number.
Today, I was calling in favors.