SILAS

(before)

I was almost afraid to hold them. Move them.

They fit in my backpack, so that was good. I guess.

Even with the straps in place, holding the lids on tight, I couldn't help but feel that if I walked too fast, or in the wrong way, they might pop open. So I moved slowly, one steady step at a time, careful not to jostle my backpack too much.

Once I got outside, I stopped on the sidewalk. And the absurdity of it—of everything—hit me like a punch to the gut. It took the wind right out of me.

I'd had two different phone conversations with the attendant before this. I still had no idea why they'd contacted me instead of my dad. Maybe it was because my dad wasn't answering any calls at all. I didn't know. And I wondered if I would ever know. Trying to get in touch with my dad was like trying to get in touch with the president. Or maybe God.

I hadn't thought to ask the attendant himself. Each time I spoke with him...I dunno, it just seemed like the wrong thing to say. I mean, what did it matter?

I do believe my father spoke to them at some point, because certain arrangements had already been made. And, well, that was just the problem. He'd made the arrangements, and then he'd gone dark. He'd left me here, holding the bag. Literally.

I'd taken a bus to get here. But as I stood on the sidewalk, thinking, I realized, buses are bumpy. Aren't they? Seemed to me they were. And wasn't thar a fact of great importance. Like, shouldn't that matter, considering what I have in the bag?

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My dad should drive me. It should be in his car, with him. Because...it would be safer, that way. That was right, wasn't it?

So...I called my dad.

Tried to.

It was late in the cloudy, autumn-ish day, and surprisingly chilly. There were a few pedestrians here and there. I watched as a guy maybe five years older than me crossed the street, shoulders hunched, pushing the collar of his jacket up to protect his neck from the cool breeze.

I typed my dad's contact info—listed as 'Mr. Turner' in my phone, but don't ask me why.

It dialed. And rang. And rang.

He didn't pick up.

Which was a real twist. Never would have seen that coming.

I pocketed my phone and started walking toward the bus stop. It was twenty-two minutes until the next bus, so I had lots of time. But I knew if I didn't start moving now, I would lose my momentum and become stuck. I would be standing there, shivering, until the stars came out, and the cold injected me with hypothermia.

It didn't make any sense. Sixteen-year-old's weren't supposed to be able to walk away with the ashes of their own family members. The custodian had asked for two things; my identification, and my signature for a form. And that didn't seem right, did it?

Not for the first time, I was hit with this feeling of...fakery. That none of it was real. Or authentic, at least. Society. The world. This socio-economic construct we'd created. I felt like if I pushed against the wall of the building on my right, it would collapse, like a cardboard backdrop on a movie set.

Everything my life had been built around was illusory. The big house up on the hill. The nice yard, the nice cars. The close-knit family, all there for each other. The ideal life, the appearance of stability, and security. But that was all a facade, wasn't it? All it took was a couple of mistakes. Just one minor blip in the timeline of reality. And in one fell swoop, it was all gone.

In a way, I was the only thing that existed, in the end. It was just me, alone. No one would come for me. No one would save me. My dad wasn't about to pull up next to me and open the door. I had to act, myself. I had to get on that bus if I wanted to get home.

With that thought, I grit my teeth, crooked my head downward, and marched on, against the wind.