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Before going, he spots the unfinished package of powdered donuts Brock left behind. He stares at them, heavyhearted. What a short-lived, totally unnecessary reunion, Kyle thinks to himself. Brock’s only parting gift is a fractured finger he will be nursing for six to eight weeks, according to the doctor, and a prescription for painkillers he’s likely too proud to utilize.
Still, Kyle is left with a lingering sadness. Maybe, in some faraway, long-forgotten corner of his heart, he actually hoped he and Brock might be able to reconcile. Brock is a living piece of his past, perhaps the only part that remains. For one fleeting moment, Kyle thought he had found it again.
He takes the package of donuts off the waiting room table, weighs it in his palm like it’s a toy football, aims for the trash bin across the room, then throws. With an unsatisfying little swish and a thump, it lands in the bin.
“Still got it,” mutters Kyle, miserable.
He crosses the town in the mild twilight, hands stuffed in his pockets. When he turns onto his street, he stops. Parked in front of his house is Brock’s white sports car. Kyle approaches it and finds Brock sitting inside, windows down.
Brock glances at him, then shakes his head. “Don’t ask.”
Kyle frowns. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“Dunno. Got halfway to Phoenix. Stopped at a gas station. Bought a fuckin’ hat.”
Kyle glances at the passenger seat, where a red ball cap sits, tiny football graphics all over its curved bill.
“Like it was put in that gas station by God,” says Brock to the steering wheel, “wantin’ me to find it, sendin’ a message.”
Kyle isn’t sure what to make of this. “Message …?”
“It isn’t a gift,” says Brock, snatching the hat off the seat and putting it on his own head. “It’s mine.” Then he frowns at Kyle under the shadow of the hat. “Damn it, I didn’t want to … to come out here and be like this. I don’t know what I’m doing Kyle. I’m fuckin’ lost. I can’t even hear God anymore. It’s just nothing when I pray. I pray and I hear nothing. Nothing, not a damned thing. Did Tristan curse me? Is he haunting me? Did he bite me and leave a piece of the Devil inside me? I can’t hear God anymore.” He presses his forehead to the steering wheel, causing the hat to lift up slightly. He stays like that for a while. “Do you think …” He shifts his head, doesn’t quite meet Kyle’s eyes. “Do you think we … can be … friends again? Even after everything? Can we just put it behind us and be okay … before I give up and let you die all over again?”
Kyle gazes at the cockeyed hat on Brock’s head, all the little footballs in a sea of red. On the radio, an old country song is playing softly, barely audible. It sounds like a song he heard a lifetime ago, maybe just once or twice, yet he recognizes it.
“Tristan’s dead, by the way.”
Brock’s eyes snap to Kyle’s. He parts his lips, lets out a delayed breath, then mutters, “You … You mean … people like him …? Like you? You mean … you can … you can die …?”
“Yes,” answers Kyle simply.
“H-How?”
“Sunlight is one way.”
Brock stares down at Kyle’s chest, as if trying to picture it, Tristan’s last moment on Earth, how it might have looked, how it might have felt. “I thought …” Brock swallows, shakes his head. “I thought he … he’d never …”
“Well, he did,” says Kyle. Then his tone softens. “I guess you have nothing left to fear except me.”
Brock looks up at him, softly says, “I’m not afraid of you.”
“And I see you working it over in your head,” Kyle goes on. “I wouldn’t bother wasting the effort. Whether you try to drag me into the sun or pour holy water on me, it’s no use. I can’t even kill me. I tried.”
“I wasn’t gonna—” Brock starts, then belatedly hears what Kyle just said. “Wait. You … you tried?”
None of this is easy for Kyle. He lets out a patient breath, steels himself, then comes to a decision. “You wanna come in and crash here for the night? You can continue escaping your miserable life for a bit longer, provided Jessica doesn’t consult your pastor or your whole congregation to track down where you’ve gone. I might have some ‘normal stuff’ for you to eat, including tuna I keep for a cat who hates me. Or if you’re too afraid I’ll bite you while you’re asleep, you can sit out here and sulk in your child-sized football hat for as long as you please.”
Brock makes a face. “First, this isn’t a child-sized hat. This is a man-sized hat. For a man. Me. Second …” He whips the hat off his head suddenly, checks the label, curses. “Seriously? I bought a hat for a damned toddler?”
