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“Have you called him yet?” Dad asked.
Michael nearly banged his head off the trailer door at the completeduhbehind the question. “No, why didn’t you call him?”
“I don’t have his number memorized. Might have it on that notepad he left on the side table, though, dunno.”
“It’s fine. I’ll do it.” Michael ended the call, found Josiah’s contact, and called him.
Chimes echoed from somewhere in the yard. Michael turned in a slow circle, observing his surroundings. Two parked cars. Dad’s pickup. The barn and its open doors, the interior bathed in blackness just beyond the reach of the outdoor lights. The ringtone seemed to be coming from that direction. Michael ended the call, put his cell back in his pocket, and lifted the shotgun to his hip. Josiah could have easily dropped his phone at some point while wheeling Dad out of the barn, but everything in Michael screamed with alarm.
Something was very wrong.
He approached the barn slowly, every sense on high alert, straining to hear anything, to see any shadow that moved. The yard was eerily silent, the loudest sound the beat of Michael’s own racing heart. The interior of the barn brightened slightly the closer he got and as his eyes adjusted to the lights and shadows in front of him. The shape didn’t make sense at first, because why would a sneaker be in the middle of the aisle between stalls?
“Fuck.” Michael smacked at the light switches as he bolted, managing to turn on half the bulbs along the stalls, and he stopped short beside the sneaker. A sneaker connected to a leg and a hip and a torso.
Josiah lay sprawled on his back, his left arm bent above his head, his right across his chest. His glasses were in the dirt nearby. The sheer wrongness of him like that took a back seat to Michael’s shock and fear at the blood on Josiah’s forehead and left cheek. And the fact that he was unconscious.
“Christ, Josiah.” He dropped to his knees, careful to keep the shotgun pointed away, and instinctively pressed his fingers to Josiah’s neck. His skin was chilly but his pulse was strong. Michael yanked his own fleece off and tucked it awkwardly around Josiah’s chest. The cut on his forehead still oozed blood but it wasn’t gushing. “Josiah, can you hear me? Hey?”
Nothing.
Unwilling to panic while he was the only able-bodied person on the property, Michael called 911. Told the lady who answered his address. “I found my tenant unconscious in the barn. He has a head wound, but I don’t know what happened or how long he’s been out. At least ten minutes, I think, and it’s cold out here.”
The woman promised to send paramedics and alert local authorities. That done, Michael called the house. Dad answered after half a ring, and Michael did his best to describe what was happening. “You sit tight, okay?” Michael said. “I’m going to wait out here for the ambulance.”
“You think he tripped over something and hit his head?”
“I have no idea.” He scanned the area around them. “There really isn’t anything he could have tripped on. I’m sure he’ll tell me when he wakes up. For now, don’t panic. Just... I don’t know what, but don’t panic.”
“Doesn’t sound like I’m the one panicking, son. Josiah’s a strong boy—he’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.” He hung up, then gave Josiah’s shoulder a squeeze and shake. “Come on, man, wake up for me.” When a firmer shake didn’t work, Michael cast around for something else to cover Josiah with. Michael was half-frozen himself without his fleece, and he wasn’t sprawled out on the cold ground. The horse blankets in one of the stalls were dusty, but they were warm, and he piled two on top of Josiah.
Maybe he kicked up a bit of dirt doing that, because Josiah coughed and muttered without opening his eyes. His nose twitched and his lips parted.
“Hey, there you are. It’s Michael. Wake up for me, Josiah. Come back to me, please.”
“Guh.” More muttering that Michael couldn’t decipher. Josiah’s eyes began moving behind his lids.
Michael cupped his right cheek, hoping to ground him with his touch. “Come on, baby, I’m right here. Open those pretty brown eyes for me. Please.”
It took some work, but Josiah finally, blessedly, blinked his eyes open. They swam with confusion and pain, and both hurt Michael’s heart to see. “Mich—Michael?”
“Yeah, it’s me. You’re in the barn. You hit your head somehow. Do you remember?”
“My head?” His arms moved beneath the heavy horse blankets. “Hurts.”
“I bet. You’ve got a cut and it’s bleeding a little. Baby, what happened?”
“The lights.” Josiah frowned, grimaced. Closed his eyes for a few seconds. “There was a shirt. A green shirt. Shouldn’t’ve been here.”
“A shirt?” Michael looked around their immediate area but didn’t see any clothes, much less a green shirt.
“It was mine. Picked it up. From Seamus.”
Just the sound of that prick’s name irritated Michael on a cellular level. “You found McBride’s shirt in the barn?”
“No, mine. Left it there. You didn’t know to get it. Picked it up.” Josiah’s eyes widened with alarm. “Someone hit me. With something. I turned. Wham. Lights out. Ouch.”
