Page 16 of Where the Music Grows

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.”