Page 34 of Sparrow

The old man had come out of the doorway and was now standing at the back of the truck. Owen scanned the house, but there was no sign of Corey—other than her truck that was in the driveway.

"I'm not comfortable with this," Owen said to Paul. He wiped his mouth with his hand and mumbled it quietly where the woman didn't notice or hear him.

"I think he wanted to talk to your daughter about a jewelry order," Paul said. "Is there any way she can talk to him about that?"

"Everything's online."

That was all she said. She was stone-faced and not amused. She had the gun pointed slightly away from Owen now, but her posture was alert and she was still holding it like she was prepared to use it.

Owen remembered what Corey said about her not using it, though. She had seemed pretty certain. He considered rushing her. He could take her and that old man. That wasn't going to happen, though. It was too dangerous, and Owen had no way of knowing if she would pull the trigger.

Paul took a deep breath, shaking his head and starting to turn around. He was relenting, and he thought Owen would follow him. Owen had no other choice.

Chapter 13

Corey Jones

It had been three days since I had any sort of pain medicine, and the last two days, I woke up feeling alert and anxious to get my leg better. I threw myself into work. I had been given some physical therapy homework at the hospital, and I was following that religiously, too.

I could put no weight at all on my foot. It was in a cast, but even then, I couldn’t put any weight on it. I had a pair of crutches, and I was learning to get around the house on those.

Mostly, I stayed in my room. I had all my jewelry stuff spread out on the dresser as if it were a workbench. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to my mom, Stanley, or John. That was difficult because I depended on them for my basic needs. John brought us groceries, and my mom cooked meals for all of us.

I could have left in the middle of the night and hobbled away from this place on crutches. Maybe a braver soul would have done so. But I wasn't that soul. I decided to quietly deal with the three of them and wait to make any moves after my ankle was functioning.

I threw myself into jewelry. I was working on a piece now. It was a bracelet, and I was sanding it on the wheel.

I turned off my machine, and I could have sworn I heard my name being yelled.

I put the bracelet down and closed my eyes, listening. I figured it was Stanley or John because it sounded like a man's voice. I listened closer, thinking vaguely that it had come from outside. I sat there for a minute and listened intently. Sometimes I could hear Stanley's television, but this sounded like my name.

I gave it a few more seconds, but I couldn't hear anything. I took a sip of my water, still listening. I loved music, and a lot of times, I had it playing as I worked, but at the moment, my room was silent. I listened for another few seconds, thinking about Owen and wishing his was the voice I heard.

I stood up and stretched, leaning on my dresser for support. The thought of Owen made me experience a feeling of longing. That hit me with enough force that I began moving, searching. I grabbed my crutches which were leaning against the dresser, and I went to my window.

My bedroom had a view of the woods, but if I stood at my window and looked out of the far left side of it, I could see into the front yard and that dirt road that ran in front of our house. I could even see a bit of the driveway.

I could barely make it out, but it looked like there was a truck parked at the chain that crossed our driveway. I thought it might be one of the old timers that went to the church, but I didn't recognize the truck. I assumed it would be one of them or their children dropping off food for Stanley.

And then I stretched and craned my neck to the very edge of my window, and I saw him. I paused, not breathing or moving as I watched Owen open the passenger's side of the truck. It wasn't a truck I recognized, so it took me a second to understand that—

"Owen! Owen!"

I banged on the window and yelled his name but it was no use, he was too far away. He kept moving, holding the door handle and opening it. He was moving slowly, looking at the house, hesitating.

"Owen!" I said again, trying to yell and disbelieving of how weak and ineffective my voice was. Panic began to course through my body as I watched helplessly. He moved around the passenger's door. He was leaving. I couldn't see who was driving the truck. I could only see the passenger's side.

There was no time to think.

I reacted by pure instinct.

I knew from experience that my window didn't open. It had been painted shut ever since I had been living here. I couldn't open my window and call to him like a normal person. But I had to stop him from leaving. I had to make a lot of noise and I had to make it fast. I only had a precious few seconds to react, and I went to action without thinking at all.

I grabbed the nearest hard object, which was a small, metal end table where I kept a fake plant. The plant may as well have been made of air with how I flung it to the side. I took the stand out from under it and stood in front of my window. I swung that table like a baseball bat. I had to put some weight on my foot to make it happen, but my quickness and the adrenaline made me feel no pain.

A crash.

Shattering.

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