“Your momma will be expecting you,” he said softly.
Cricket’s fingers left permanent creases when they fell away from Decker’s shirt.
A scarlet puddle formed under the table and filled the cracks in the floor.
Safine’s arms trembled as she held her ripped skirt to his chest, waiting for it to rise again.
It never did.
A muffled sound escaped her throat, thin and desperate. Sister Inez slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her in and cloaking her with some form of peace.
Decker’s fingernails bit grooves into the table next to Cricket. Ender’s Ridge hadn’t been right for a long time, but those who lived there were complacent, believing they found a town that protected them if they protected it.
And Cricket atoned for our sins.
Decker wished for Cricket to spring to his feet, laughing while he spun another tall tale about being chased across the desert after a daring robbery.
Across from him, Laurie held his still-warm hand. Decker shrugged off his duster to stretch over Cricket’s body. There was no afterlife, there was only this life, and he had failed him.
Decker stared at him until the sting in his eyes faded.
Gathering him in his arms for the last time, Decker went to the back room and Laurie followed, soundlessly heaving the trapdoor open.
A cold blast of air from the root cellar met him as he carried Cricket down the narrow stairs and laid him on the blocks of ice and straw lining the back dirt wall. This was where he had to stay until the town recovered from the sickness.
They would be digging more than a single grave for Cricket.
His family was the one thing Cricket kept behind lock and key. Always protecting them, tight-lipped and careful about endangering the family of a notorious outlaw. He’d be buried in Amaretto, by his girl.
Decker carefully searched Cricket’s pockets, only coming up with a note scrawled on cigarette papers. A crude attempt he would have delivered to the telegraph office, if he made it past the bridge.
“His family won’t be expecting him,” Decker said, rereading the rough lettering again and again before slipping it in his pocket. His mother wouldn’t be waiting expectantly for a son that was never coming home, and the thought could have comforted him if he wasn’t so empty.
Laurie twisted his hands, his gaze fixed. “I was always told there’s a reason for things happening,” he said. “But this—he was just a boy. Younger than me.”
Decker could hear the unspoken words.
Perhaps God has forsaken this town. We have become the people left behind by the ark.
“Cricket didn’t need God to save him, preacher. I could have been the savior he needed.”
Laurie’s face bordered on anguish. “Why weren’t you?”
From anyone else, it would have been a bone-deep accusation. With Laurie’s words Decker only felt resigned acceptance of his failure.
“He deserved peace I couldn’t offer. Do you think he’s at peace now?”
“If I don’t, then what is all this for?”
Decker glanced sideways. “You live for your death. Some of us don’t have the luxury of having a life after we die. Our souls were traded a long time ago and we have to make the most of this life.”
“You’re wrong,” Laurie said, suddenly insistent, as if he was trying to convince himself. “No soul is beyond saving. Even yours.Especiallyyours.”
“You are still a stranger, Mr. Lane. You don’t know our town, you don’t know our customs, you don’t know ourlife,” he said, each word softly edged with pain. “There is no hope except tomorrow for most of us. We don’t need prayers, we need to live, and if you want to help, we need to keep going.”
Laurie hesitated, face unreadable as Cricket’s telegram. “I can’t be like you.”
“I’ve seen a hundred years of death, Mr. Lane. Too many by my hand. Forever would be a punishment if I let each one affect me.”
