(AN: Sorry for the late update me and the wife are both sick plus we lost internet yesterday. well enjoy)
The heat was already there, sitting in the air before the sun finished climbing. It pressed against Stephen's face when he tried to breathe, thick enough that the cicadas sounded far away, dulled, like the noise had to crawl through it.
He stood on the edge of the driveway in bare feet. Gravel dug into his skin. He could feel each stone, the sharp ones, the flat ones, the ones that rolled under his toes. He did not move. He stared at the truck.
It was up on a jack.
George was by the front end with his back turned, half under the bumper the way he always was. His shoulders shifted as he worked. Metal clinked. Something scraped. A tool slid, caught, then snapped free. It was a normal sound. It belonged to a normal morning. Stephen's chest did not loosen.
The shadow under the truck was spreading.
Not in the way shade moved with the sun. Not in the way oil pooled. It crawled out from under the chassis in a smooth creep that did not care about cracks in the concrete. It was too dark. It swallowed the pale driveway without changing shape, without slowing.
Stephen's stomach went cold.
"Dad?"
The word came out smaller than he wanted.
He. did not answer. He kept working like he could not hear him.
Stephen started forward and his legs did not behave right. His knees lifted, but his feet dragged. Each step took effort, like the air had turned into something heavy he had to push through. He forced another one anyway because the jack made a low, wrong creak that set his teeth on edge.
"Dad, move," Stephen said. His throat went raw as soon as he raised his voice. "The jack is failing."
He knew what the truck weighed. He knew what the angle meant. He could see the bend in the metal, the way a line bowed when it was about to give. His mind tried to build a clean answer anyway. It threw numbers at the problem like numbers could grab his father by the shirt and haul him back.
Nothing held.
George. shifted and slid out a little. He turned his head, just enough that Stephen should have seen his face.
It would not settle into focus. The outline was there, jaw and brow, the familiar shape of him, but the details blurred, soft and wrong, like Stephen's eyes refused to accept what they were looking at.
George's voice came out steady, tired. "It is okay, son."
Stephen swallowed. His tongue felt too big in his mouth.
"You cannot solve this one," George said.
Stephen's stomach dropped so hard he felt it in his knees.
"I can," Stephen said, and it came out as a sound that did not feel like his voice. He shoved forward, reaching for the shoulder of his dad's shirt, the part that always had a faint grease stain no matter how many times Mary washed it. He was close enough to smell him. Soap, sweat, motor oil.
His fingertips brushed fabric.
The jack snapped.
Metal screamed. The front end of the truck dipped, but it did not dip the way it should. The darkness under it opened wider and the bumper disappeared into it like the concrete had turned soft. George went with it. No warning. No scramble. One second there, the next gone.
Stephen lunged forward and hit the driveway with his palms. Pain shot up his wrists. His knees scraped hard. He grabbed for anything, for the hem of jeans, for a boot, for a hand, and his fingers closed on air that felt cold.
Then the driveway was not there.
The house was not there.
There was only flat dark space, and Stephen's mind kept trying to put the world back where it belonged. Porch. Mailbox. Tire tracks. The smell of cut grass. It tried to stack the pieces in the right order and nothing caught.
His lungs stuttered.
He tried to inhale and it snagged.
Then he was upright in bed.
His breath came in broken pulls, fast, uneven. Sweat cooled on his back. The room was dark in that way that made corners feel close. He sat there with his hands clenched in the blanket, staring at the wall as if staring could make it stop being real.
His heart hammered against his ribs hard enough to hurt. His throat burned. His hands shook once before he forced them still by pressing his knuckles into the mattress.
His dad. is dead.
The thought landed hard and stayed there.
Stephen swallowed and it felt like swallowing grit. He tried to slow his breathing. It did not listen. The air came in sharp, then stalled, then came again.
He slid his feet to the floor. Cold bit his soles. It helped, a little, like pain was at least honest. He stood slowly because standing too fast made his head swim. He listened. The house made small noises. A refrigerator hum. A board settling. Something outside, faint and distant.
Normal sounds that did not deserve to keep happening.
He opened his door and stepped into the hallway.
Two steps and he stopped.
Near the baseboard was a smear of dried mud, tracked in and forgotten. He stared at it until his eyes stung, then blinked hard and kept moving. He did not let himself look toward his parents' room. His hand rose anyway, halfway, then dropped like it had hit an invisible wall.
The kitchen light was on, low and yellow. Mary stood at the counter in her robe, hair pulled back like she had been up long enough to remember to do it. She was wiping the same spot with a dish towel. The counter was already clean. She kept going anyway, pressing hard enough that her knuckles went pale.
She turned when she heard him. For half a second her face did not know what to do. Then the smile came, small and strained, late by a heartbeat.
"Goodness gracious," Mary said softly. "You scared me, baby."
The word hit Stephen in the chest. Baby. Like she could still hold the world together if she kept talking like that.
His mouth opened and nothing came out.
Mary's eyes flicked down to his bare feet, then back up to his face. Her fingers tightened around the towel. She twisted it once, then forced her hands to go still.
Stephen crossed the kitchen and hugged her.
He did it before he could think about it. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his forehead to her shoulder. Her robe smelled like soap and the faint leftover of dinner. Ordinary smells that made his throat tighten because they belonged to a life that kept moving.
Mary froze for a heartbeat, then her arms came around him and locked. She held on too tight for a second, like she forgot how to let go. He felt her shaking against him, small tremors she tried to bury in her ribs.
"It is okay," Mary whispered into his hair. "It is okay."
Stephen clenched his jaw. His chest hitched once. His eyes burned. He kept his face turned into her shoulder because he did not want her to see anything else break.
Mary made a sound that was too small to call crying. She pulled back just enough to look at him, then looked away fast like she had been caught looking at something damaged.
"I can make you something," she said, voice too bright. "Toast, or eggs. You need to eat something."
Stephen nodded. It was easier than speaking.
A shadow moved in the doorway.
Missy shuffled in wearing an old T-shirt and shorts, hair a mess, face puffy around the eyes like she had either been crying or not sleeping or both. She saw the hug and made a face like it offended her.
"Y'all are gonna start that early?" Missy said. Her voice was rough.
Mary blinked hard. "Missy."
"What," Missy snapped, then her mouth tightened like she regretted it. She yanked the fridge open too hard. Bottles rattled. She stared inside like she expected it to have an answer. The cold air washed over her face and she stood there longer than she needed to.
Stephen watched her hands. She did not take anything out. She just kept looking.
"You sleep?" Missy asked without looking at him.
"No," Stephen said.
Missy shut the fridge, quieter this time. She leaned her hip against the counter and crossed her arms. Her foot tapped once, then stopped like she caught herself.
"Yeah," Missy muttered. "Me neither."
Mary turned to the stove like she needed somewhere else to put her eyes. "I will make eggs," she said. "For everybody."
"I do not want eggs," Missy replied immediately, but she did not leave.
The back door opened. The sound cut through the quiet. Meemaw walked in with a mug in her hand, hair set, eyes half-lidded like she had already decided what she would and would not tolerate. She looked at Mary, then at Stephen, then at Missy. Her gaze stayed on each of them long enough to make the kitchen feel smaller.
"Well," Meemaw said. "Ain't this a cheerful sight."
Mary's mouth trembled, but she forced it into a smile that looked painful. "Mama."
Meemaw set the mug down with a small thud. Not hard, but definite. "Do not you 'Mama' me like I am the preacher come to do a reading." Her eyes flicked over Stephen's face. "You look like you been chewin' nails."
Stephen swallowed. The words pushed out before he could stop them. "I keep seeing it."
Meemaw's eyes narrowed a fraction. She did not soften. She did not look away either. "Yeah," she said, like that was the only honest answer in the room.
Mary's hand tightened around the towel again. "I am fine."
Meemaw snorted. "Sure you are."
Missy's mouth twitched, almost a smile, then it died.
A small sound came from the hallway, a quick step that stopped. Sheldon stood there in pajama pants and a T-shirt, hair flattened on one side. He looked at the table, then at the space where his father would have sat, and his eyes snapped away like the sight burned.
"I will be attending Stephen's graduation ceremony as scheduled," Sheldon said. His voice was too careful, too formal. "And my own, when it occurs. This is logically consistent."
Mary whispered, "Thank you, Shelly," like she was thanking him for breathing.
Sheldon nodded once and left the doorway, quiet again, gone before anyone could decide what to do with him.
Meemaw nodded toward Stephen without making it gentle. "You got hands," she said. "Go do something with 'em before you start crawlin' outta your skin."
Stephen nodded. He grabbed his shoes from by the door and stepped outside.
The morning air hit him damp and warm, already building toward the kind of day that made shirts stick to skin. The sky was pale. Grass was dark with dew. He walked down the road without deciding to. His fists stayed clenched. His jaw locked so tight it hurt.
He tried again to pull up the moment that mattered. Not the general shape of it. The exact second. Where his dad's hand was. Where Stephen's feet were. He pushed at the memory until his chest tightened and his breath shortened, and it still slid away.
His fingers curled until his nails bit into his palms.
He cut off toward scrubby land near the edge of a field where kids sometimes went to mess around. There was a big boulder there, half-buried in dirt, cracked and ugly. Stephen stopped in front of it and stared until his eyes started to sting.
His fists opened and closed. He swallowed and it did not go down clean.
He lifted his fist and held it there, hovering, breathing hard through his nose. His pulse throbbed in his knuckles.
Then he hit the rock.
The first strike landed hard and controlled. His knuckles hit a crack. A chunk flaked off and bounced in the dirt.
He hit it again, faster. The crack spread. Dust jumped up and stuck to sweat on his skin.
Again. The sound was ugly. His shoulder jarred from the impact. He bit his tongue and tasted iron.
Again. A larger piece broke free and rolled into the weeds.
Again. His breathing turned ragged. The hit was not precise anymore. It was pure motion, anger pushing his arm through the swing before his head could argue.
Again. Pebbles skittered away. The boulder turned into a jagged mess.
Again. The last one landed with his palm, blunt and flat, turning broken pieces into smaller pieces. Dust puffed and hung in the air.
He froze, shoulders rising and falling hard. His jaw trembled once. He bent forward with his hands on his knees like he might throw up, then swallowed and tasted blood again.
"I should have done more," he said. The words came out quiet and cracked. "I should have been there."
He spat blood into the dirt. The red looked wrong against the brown ground.
He wiped his face hard with the back of his wrist, grinding grit into his skin, and started walking back before anyone could come looking.
When he got inside, the kitchen smelled like eggs and toast. Mary was at the stove. Missy sat at the table with her arms crossed, staring at a plate like she was mad at it. Meemaw sat with her mug, watching everything without looking like she was watching.
The phone on the counter blinked.
Missed call.
Paige.
Stephen's chest tightened in a different way. He grabbed the phone and stepped into the hallway before anyone could ask where he had been.
He dialed back.
She answered quick. "Hello?"
"Hi, Paige," Stephen said. "It's Stephen. I'm calling you back."
"I was just calling to check on you," Paige said, and her voice sounded careful, like she was trying not to scare him by sounding scared herself.
"Thanks, Paige," Stephen said. His throat tightened on her name. He swallowed and his tongue stung. "I'm sad, but I will be okay. It's gonna take time."
Paige exhaled softly into the line. "I'm sorry. Are you still coming to graduation?"
"Yes," Stephen said. The word came out steady because he needed it to. "I will be there, and I'm still going to MIT with you. Dad would want me to move forward. He worked hard for all of us, and I will work hard to make him happy."
"Okay," Paige said, quieter. "Well, I will see you when you get back then. Bye."
"Bye, Paige," Stephen said.
He ended the call and stood there with the phone in his hand for a second longer than he needed to. His fingers were still dirty. His knuckles stung. His chest felt tight like a band around it.
From the kitchen, Mary's voice floated out, too bright again. "Stephen, honey, you want orange juice?"
Missy muttered something under her breath that sounded like a complaint and a prayer at the same time.
Meemaw's chair scraped, and Stephen could picture her shifting her weight, watching the hallway like she had eyes that could see through walls if she tried hard enough.
He put the phone back on the counter and walked into the kitchen.
Mary glanced up. Her eyes flicked over his face, then away. She tried to smile and it almost worked, but her mouth shook at one corner and she swallowed hard.
Stephen pulled out a chair and sat down. The wood scraped the floor. He put his hands flat on the table, palms down, and held them still.
Meemaw's gaze dropped to his knuckles. She did not ask. She lifted her mug and took a sip like the day was normal because someone had to act like it.
The back door opened again and a louder set of footsteps came in, heavier, hurried. Georgie's voice hit the kitchen before his body did.
"Hey," Georgie said, and it sounded wrong in the room, like somebody playing the radio too loud at a funeral.
Then he stepped in holding Cece on his hip, her little hands grabbing at his shirt. She blinked at the light, at the people, then babbled something that had no words in it, just sound and breath. Georgie bounced her once like he could make the air lighter by force.
Mary's face moved, trying to become a real smile. Her hands went out automatically. "Oh, give me my grandbaby," she said, and her voice broke on the last word before she caught it.
Georgie passed Cece over. Missy watched for a second, then looked away fast, jaw tight, shoulders up like she was bracing.
Stephen kept his hands flat on the table. He stared at the fork like it was the only thing in the room he could control. Cece's little noises filled the space where his dad's voice should have been. It was not fair. It was also alive.
Meemaw cleared her throat once, sharp. "Eat," she said again, like it was a command and a favor at the same time.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.
(AN: I have been updating the previous chapters slowly they will have a (RW) in there title if done)