Page 21 of Reeves

We both laugh at the absurdness and irony in that. We know exactly how our oldest brother operates.

I know Rhodes isn't lecturing me about my brief stay. In fairness, this is a long one. He's used to me being gone.

"Not quick enough."

Rhodes pulls his helmet back on, voice muffled through the visor. "Don't get eaten by gators."

"If I do, I will tell them to start with my left leg. Right one's my good one."

He flips me off before riding back toward the Hummer. The engine whines as it fades away to a rattle in the trees. I watch until he disappears, leaving nothing but a faint cloud of dust hanging in the air.

Then it's just me.

The woods fall into a deep quiet I haven't experienced in years. No engines. No voices. No orders. No gunfire.

Just the steady rhythm of crickets, the occasional call of a bird, and the soft rustle of wind through pine needles.

I swing back onto the dirt bike and kick it to life, revving the engine to push against the quiet. The trail narrows ahead, winding along the edge of the marsh. Cypress knees puncture the soggy ground to my right, dense pines crowding my left.

Each bump and jolt feels familiar, like riding the wake of an old memory. The path curves around a massive oak before straightening out.

The woods open to a sunlit clearing, and I cut the throttle. The cabin stands in the center, weathered gray planks against the green backdrop. Its wide porch faces the marsh, just as I remember.

I kill the engine.

The silence rushes in again.

"Fuck." The word slips out under my breath.

My boots crunch across the clearing. The steps creak under my weight. I don't check the door, just glance through the windows at the same simple furnishings.

I lower myself onto the top step and lean back against one of the porch posts, the wood rough against my shoulder blades.

Across the clearing, tall pines sway in the breeze. The movement without sound makes my skin prickle.

Mom used to sit right here.

I can picture her in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt, knees pulled to her chest, eyes tracking a squirrel or bird or some other wildlife.

"Look, Reeves," she'd say. "Watch how the light changes when the wind moves through the grass."

I never understood what she meant. I never sat still long enough to notice.

My fingers tap against my thigh. One. Two. Three.

The quiet presses in, each breath taking more effort than it should.

How could she stand it? Just sitting. Watching.

I push myself upright. The restlessness crawls under my skin, demanding motion.

Back on the bike, the engine roars to life, drowning everything else out. The vibration grounds me. I tear out of the clearing faster than necessary, whipping past trees until I hit the gravel road that leads back to my truck.

I pull into the long,curved driveway just as the gate swings closed behind me.

The Hummer rumbles to a stop beside the garage. I step out,lower the trailer ramp, and roll the bikes down one at a time. Both are coated in a thin layer of dried mud from the trails, the kind that cakes into the bolts if you leave it too long.

The lights in the garage flick on automatically as I move.