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PROLOGUE

Dean

I’m so, so screwed.

Completely.

Totally.

I don’t know what to do. Except I have to know.

There’s a tiny, scrunchy-faced bundle four floors up in the NICU, and she needs me to know. She doesn’t know I lost my usefulness when I quit playing basketball. She doesn’t know it’s my fault she doesn’t have a mother.

My fingertips press against the mustard-yellow tile I’m sitting on, hard enough to ache. I keep pushing against the floor, trying to stand, to move, to do literally anything.

But right here, right now, I’m stuck.

All the questions I can’t answer keep running though my head, pelting me like angry fans with popcorn after a losing game.

Where are you going to live?

How are you going to support yourself?

What the hell do you know about taking care of a baby when you can barely take care of yourself?

The one person who knew? The one who had a plan?

Well, the medical folks kicked me out of her room when she collapsed on the floor. I wasn’t even able to say goodbye.

The restroom door squeaks open, but I don’t bother looking up. My forehead stays resting against my knees. Like those weird toads I used to see around the trailer park, I’m hoping if I freeze, whoever’s walking in will ignore me, do their business, and leave.

With the sound of piss hitting the urinal and then water running while someone washes their hands, I think I’ve gotten my wish.

Until someone says, “You got a problem, buddy?”

Problem? Heck no. Problems, plural? So many I don’t know where to start. I’m not even a little bit okay. Nothing will ever be okay again.

What I want is for this guy to leave. I want to nod and tell him I’m fine so I can get back to figuring out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.

Except the shaky feeling inside me intensifies, the tears I thought had dried threaten to spill again. When I open my mouth I blurt out, “I’m going to ruin her life.”

There’s a quiet click of footsteps, a tapping sound like the way the pastor at our old church walked when I was a kid. He had those shiny shoes with the smooth bottoms. Like the pair that appears in front of me. When I look up I realize the resemblance to my old pastor ends at the shoes.

The man looking down on me wears nice clothes—much nicer than anything I own—including black slacks and a dress shirt. He’s also got a bull tattooed on his neck and a gun holstered at his hip.

“Oh yeah? Whose life are you about to ruin? What are you doing down there on the floor, big man?”

Uh. “I didn’t think you were allowed to have guns in a hospital.”

I thought I saw that on a sign. Maybe I’m wrong, though. A lot of stupid, impulsive things come out of my mouth.

I’m expecting some reply that starts with telling me where I can shove my opinions or “Well, actually…” but all he does is laugh. “Probably not.”

He doesn’t seem at all concerned about getting caught. Which tells me he’s dangerous. I’ve seen guys like this back home in Georgia. There was one who showed up at a trailer park we used to live in. Daddy said it was because Mr. Cornell across the way was dumb enough to borrow money from the wrong people.

A couple of weeks later, Mr. Cornell disappeared for good.

“Well?” The man nudges his fancy shoe against my ratty sneaker. “Why are you down there looking like the world ended? Someone die?”