Page 18 of Where the Music Grows

I shove the photo back in the box.

The worst memory comes uninvited.

Ten years ago. One of the calves got tangled in barbed wire. By the time we found her, her leg was shredded.

Dad didn’t hesitate. Just grabbed the rifle.

“It’s kinder,” he said.

I threw up afterward. Not from the blood—from the way Dad shrugged, like it was nothing. Just another Tuesday.

Mom found me behind the barn. She didn’t say anything. Just sat with me, her arm around my shoulders, until I stopped shaking.

“You don’t have to be like him,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. Not to Dad. He couldn’t understand why it hurt me so much. Why I just felt like I wasn’t meant to be on that farm forever. I liked it well enough, but I could not see myself ever doing that for the next fifty years. It just wasn’t me.

The last photo is my favorite. Mom’s sitting on the porch steps, her guitar in her lap, showing me a chord. I’m maybe six, my tiny fingers struggling to stretch across the strings. My guitar was my connection to my mom. Music is how I remembered her the best. Every year that passed without her, the harder it got to remember the little things about her. But when I had my guitar in my hand, it was like yesterday.

I pull out my notebook, the one I’ve been scribbling lyrics in for years. The pages are dog-eared, some stained with coffee or dirt.

A melody tugs at the back of my mind—something sad and sweet. It’s more of a feeling than actual words. But the words always come if I let them.

I start writing.

Red dirt roads and rusted gates,

Promises I couldn’t keep.

You said I’d learn to love this place,

But all I loved was you.

It’s not great. But it’s honest.

I strum a few chords, testing the words.

For the first time in months, I don’t feel lost.

Just alone.

And maybe that’s okay.

Chapter Seven

Jack

It’s clear I’m not meant for starvation. I thought I’d be okay not eating, but shit, I’m hungry. My stomach growls, reminding me that a few muffins and a protein bar don’t count as a real meal. The bread was filling for a time, but now that it’s gone, I’m starving.

If only I had a damn fishing pole.

But I’m not going to quit. I can be hungry. It’s okay.

For now.

But hungry and cold is just not going to work. The clouds rolled in about an hour ago and the sun is just about set. I figure I better build myself a fire. I’ve gone through the last of the water I brought with me and I’m not about to drink straight from the creek and end up with a case of the shits. No, thank you.

I need a fire. I built a fire ring out of rocks I collected and now I need some tinder.