Alex was staring at a set of fifty-two pearly-yellow teeth. Well, at least that’s what they felt like. In reality, the old keys on Ms. Herman’s giant brown piano had no way of biting him. They could only sit there and wait patiently to be played. Still, this didn’t stop him from hesitating when he put his fingers in their proper positions in its maw. The black and white notes, scrolled across an old but very well-kept sheet, seemed to blur together. It was hard for him to tell if he was playing “To a Wild Rose,” or taking an inkblot test. He shifted in his seat on a large, cushioned bench that somehow straddled the line of being both comfortable and painful at the same time.

His task was simple. All he needed to do was remember how it goes. He’d done it plenty of times before, so there was no reason why he couldn’t keep it going.

The piano notes rang out through the room and echoed throughout the house. The song was simple, though beautiful, and most importantly for Alex, it was slow. The melancholy cords came naturally at first, then something started to happen. Accidentally, he skipped ahead a bit, producing an odd jump in the performance that stuck in his ears like daggers. Now his mistake was the only thing that he could think about, and his fingers lost their rhythm. The music ended abruptly, and without an encore.

“Damn it,” Alex made sure that his annoyance was uttered under his breath. He wouldn’t want another lecture from his teacher.

Speaking of which, Ms. Herman came walking into the room, with two smoking mugs of tea in her wrinkly-white hands. “Did you forget again?” she asked, her voice sounding remarkably young for her age.

The boy nodded solemnly as his teacher placed a mug on a small table beside him. Lemon-tea. Good for the throat, not so much for the taste. “I know that I can get it right. But it’s like I have a block or something.”

Keeping her hot cup securely by the porcelain handle, Ms. Herman took her time sliding next to him on the bench. She took a closer look at the sheet-music through her thin pair of spectacles, the prescription glass making her eyes appear much larger than they were. “Are you sure that your hands are in the right positions?”

Out of everything, that was the easiest rule to remember. A little arch. Keep the wrists stable, and you’re good to go. “Yeah.”

“Well, we all make mistakes, Mr. Gaiman,” she observed softly. “Just because you don’t get it right the first time doesn’t mean that you’ll get it wrong the next.”

Alex shivered. He hated how she called him ‘Mr. Gaiman.’ That was what he had to call his father, and he certainly didn’t want to have that reminder every day. He’d tried to get her to just call him ‘Alex,’ through various methods, but all his plotting still hadn’t worked. “This isn’t my first time,” he said, trying not to pout. “It’s my hundredth.”

With a tut, Ms. Herman tilted her head. “I doubt that’s true. These things take time, practice, and patience.”

The three things that Alex didn’t have. Stealthily, he took a glance at the clock. His ‘weekly’ lesson was nearly over, and he tried not to look relieved. Reaching over, he brought the cup of steaming tea to his lips. The zesty liquid nearly burnt his tongue off.

Ms. Herman didn’t notice as her pupil turned away, muffling his shriek with the sleeve of his formal shirt. Instead, she simply took a big swig of her drink that was just enough to make her lungs feel lively again. “Come along, let’s try it again. I’ll help you this time.” With patient grace, the teacher took her pupils’ hands and placed them in the correct positions.

The song started up again, and the cozy little room was flooded with the sound. This time, Alex closed his eyes. This wasn’t to ‘let the music take him,’ but rather to ‘help remember how this shit goes.’ To his credit, he got further than he had before. Then it all went a little off kilter. An incorrect note elicited a flinch from Ms. Herman, which then elicited more incorrect notes from Alex. Soon the song ended in brambles, and a huff escaped the player’s lips.

“It’s alright,” Ms. Herman spoke softly with a gentle, if not a little patronizing, pat on the shoulder.

Alex threw his head back. “I don’t like this.”

“Well, we can change the song if you like, but you’ll never make any progress unless you stick with it,” she replied with a furrowed frown.

“No, that’s not what I meant.” The boy turned his head, pretending to admire one of the crowded bookshelves along the far wall. “I try and I try, but no matter how many times I play it, I can’t get it right. It’s like I’m going insane, doing the same things over and over and expecting a different response.”

Ms. Herman smiled softly. “Some may call that practice.” She took another big sip of her tea. “Shall we try it again?”

While he didn’t see what the point would be, Alex shrugged. Another failure wasn’t going to change anything, so he may as well try. Saddling closer to the piano, he cracked his knuckles. “One more time.”

“Remember to follow the notes,” his teacher stated the obvious. “Read over the music again, and it will take you to the right place.”

The right place? Alex wondered what that sounded like. With a nod, he skimmed over the sheet-music. Maybe if he pretended to understand it, he would somehow garner the ability to actually do so? Again, his fingers found their places, and the melody began again. Ms. Herman’s head bopped softly along to the sound as her pupil played. This time, he was able to keep his composure through the parts he found more difficult. His ears caught the tune, and strangely, he found that it was quite like his teacher’s odd metaphor. If playing the music was like finding the right place, he knew that he was on the correct path. He could see the lovely trees, the winding dirt road, and the birds circling overhead. It was lovely, but it also made him curious. Looking around, he felt the urge to find a new path. This forest was big after all, so there must be plenty of room to explore.

“Mr. Gaiman,” the old lady said pensively when the tune began to shift into something more upbeat. “These are not the correct cords.”

He didn’t reply, as he knew that he was going off-book. A smile crept along his face as he kept playing, making up a song based solely on the folly of his whims. It was by no means a masterpiece, though some would argue that it had artistic merit. He kept going, despite the unfortunate looks he was getting from his teacher.

“That is enough. You’ve had your fun,” Ms. Herman spoke as she lowered the cover of the piano, threatening to smush any fingers that dared be under it.

Alex leant back, knowing the jig was up. “That was pretty good, right?”

“It wasn’t the song.”

“I know, but I thought that I’d go someplace new with it,” he said with a grin.

A deep, long sigh escaped from his teacher’s mouth. “It wasn’t the song.”

The boy’s grin dropped. “Sorry.”

“Mr. Gaiman,” Ms. Herman began, but suddenly doubt filled her face and she shook her head. “No, never mind.”

Ever-curious, Alex decided a bit of pushing was in order. “Did you want to say something?”

“It’s none of my business.”

Now he was definitely curious. “There’s no harm in asking, you know? We’ve known each other for what? Six months? Actually, factoring in our schedule, that’s only really two weeks altogether, but that’s still long enough. Ask me anything.”

The pretty words seemed to work, and Ms. Herman turned to face him. “Mr. Gaiman, I can’t help but observe a few things from time to time. I’ve been teaching this instrument for quite a while, and I’ve had many students such as yourself. Everyone takes it differently, of course. Some are quick learners, and some are not. Though, whatever the case may be, I can sense a passion inside them. They want to learn and improve.” Her attention darted as she decided if she wanted to continue.

“But I practice pretty regularly?” came a confused rebuttal.

Ms. Herman seemed sheepish now, like she knew she was overstepping a boundary. “I think you want to improve, but the passion… is lacking.” She took a hasty sip from her boiling tea.

There was a bit of awkward silence as Alex thought about how to spin this. It was hard to do so because she had nailed it right on the head. He tried to fain an interest. Like asking questions about Bach and Choplin, or anyone else that might make him appear to actually care about the songs that were on the page. It wasn’t like he was lying about practicing. Though, if he was admitting it to himself, that might have been solely so that his parents would hear the music. “I guess it’s not something I’ve really taken to.” Perhaps a bit of honesty would be good in this situation. “I’ve tried to love it, but it hasn’t clicked with me yet.”

“I see.” Ms. Herman nodded. “May I offer you some advice?”

What was he going to say? No? “Sure.”

“I find that young people like you are always out in search of something new. Exciting. But sometimes it’s best to stick with what you know. The things that are safe and right.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to stop taking lessons. You’re too good of a teacher to quit,” he spoke, adding a charming smile.

Ms. Herman did not reciprocate the gesture. “Yes. Good. But I wasn’t referring to that.” Pushing her little body up, she moved over to a large glass-case. There were pictures of her, younger and active, surrounded by a collection of angel statues that every older person seemed to have. She took a photo in a small, round case and held it to her chest. “In life, I feel it does us all good to stay on the well-trodden path.”

Alex stood and strolled over to her, though he still couldn’t quite make out what she was looking at. “What do you mean?”

She turned and gazed at him. “Mr. Gaiman, you are a bright young man. I can see that you have much promise in your future. Your parents are propping you up for success. I wouldn’t take that for granted.”

At the mention of his parents, all of Alex’s cultivated since of charm dropped. “Sure, they do,” his sarcasm was apparent, though he tried to hide it.

“I think that you’ll do well to follow in your father's footsteps,” she continued. “Or your mothers, for that matter. Respectable professions.”

The boy looked confused. “I don’t think that’s for me.”

It was Ms. Herman’s turn to be puzzled. “Oh, but Mr. Gaiman! You’d make an excellent lawyer if you put your mind to it. I’m sure that politics would come naturally to you, too.”

How had they even gotten into this conversation? “No, it wouldn’t. I’m not—”

“You’re charismatic, Mr. Gaiman,” she interrupted. “Smart and charming. I wouldn’t know what other traits would be better for those professions.”

“Maybe, but I’d go mad. Imagine being stuck in a stuffy office, talking to stuffy people, and making stuffy decisions! It would be…” he bit his tongue. “Bad.”

“But you would be safe. Secure.” Here, Ms. Herman looked down at the picture once again.

Alex didn’t think his driver was outside, though right now, he was willing to pretend like they were. “I gotta go. Thanks for the talk.” He started to leave.

“Your parents called me the other day. They seemed worried about your schedule.”

The boy stopped in his tracks, his head perking up above his shoulders.

“Apparently, there was some confusion,” her words hung in the air.

As Alex turned back around, he saw that his teacher had turned to face him. In her arms she was holding a black-and-white picture of a bright-eyed woman in a lavish costume. Next to her, there was a younger Ms. Herman in an equally ridiculous getup. She looked happy, unlike the old woman holding her.

“They spoke with me, and we cleared a few things up,” she finished.

Panicking now was a bad idea. He’d practiced these situations in his head a hundred times over. All he needed to do was keep his cool. There was no way of knowing exactly what she knew, or what his parents had told her. Though, if past experiences had taught him anything, sometimes practice wasn’t enough. “Confusion?” he asked innocently.

Ms. Herman nodded as she put the picture back on the shelf. “They were quite concerned about you. A lot can happen in a day, Mr. Gaiman. Parents worry, you know?”

“I do.” He got the gist now.

Slowly, the older lady made her way over to her pupil. Again, she placed a hand on his shoulder, but it was nothing like the comforting gesture she thought it was. “Sometimes, we stray from the path. It’s a natural part of life. Though, the important thing is to get back to safety as soon as possible. Your parents are kind and decent people. They know what’s best for you.”

“But how did a path get made if no one went off to make one?” Alex asked. “How do we get new music if people never went off book? Ms. Herman, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He pushed away from her. “Listen, I told my parents that I come here every Wednesday because I wanted to hang out with my friends. We bowl. Not very good at it, but it’s something to do. Yeah, I know that was dishonest and I’ve made my parents worry, but it’s no big deal. I’m sure you’ve done stuff like that when you were my age.”

Her weary eyes flickered. “I did. But look where it got me.” The cozy room seemed smaller all of a sudden. Sadder, and closed-off, like a cage.

Alex studied her carefully, to see if she fully bought into his cover-up. “Well, I’ll tell my parents the truth when I get back. No big deal.” He turned again to leave, and this time he could see through a small window that his driver was actually here. “Goodbye, Ms. Herman.”

“Do your friends drive an orange truck?” she called out from behind him.

How did she know? “Yeah?” he stuttered out.

Although he couldn’t see her, he could feel Ms. Herman frowning. “I see.” These weren’t the words of someone who was convinced.

It didn’t matter; he had to get out of here before his world unraveled any more than it already had. He swung the door open, and the cloudy sky greeted him with a murky brow.

“I see it sometimes, when it passes on the road,” Ms. Herman was at the door now, her eyes lost in thought. “Only room for two.”

“Goodbye!” Alex repeated as he traipsed down a set of stone stairs.

On the curb, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst rows of the other vehicles in the neighborhood, was a thin black car. It was sleek and polished, with tinted windows so thick one could mistake the inside for an empty void. In front of the car, already opening the door to the back seat, was a tall man. He wore a cap on his head that hid an ever-increasing bald spot from view. Casually, he wore a formal suit, which was hard to pull off, but somehow, he managed. He had brown skin and a set of eyebrows that could only be described as ‘caterpillar-like.’ “Hullo,” he barely had time to say before his passenger threw himself inside.

The door shut with a thud, and the man returned to his position at the helm of the car. As the engine whirled, Alex looked out his darkened window. Ms. Herman was still there, staring at him with a worried expression. It made him uneasy, like the tea he had been drinking was making him ill. Soon they drove off, and that would be the last he ever saw of his piano teacher.

Alex slid back into the cushioned seat, the world around him getting hazy as his mind began to race. His parents knew something that he didn’t, and that was the scariest thing he could imagine. How much did they know? Did they think that what he was doing on the one missing day was something like the lie he had concocted? Bowling… How stupid! He may as well say he was out parasailing. Though, an obvious lie was a million times better than the whole truth.

“Everything alright?” the man asked, looking up at him through the rear-view mirror.

Normally, Mr. and Mrs. Gaiman referred to the person they hired to cart them places as the ‘driver.’ Sure, he’d been in their employment ever since Alex was a little kid. Still, it never occurred to them to use anything other than his role. But Alex wasn’t Mr. Gaiman- a fact that he felt it was his duty to reinforce. So, he decided on the more obvious solution of calling the driver by his actual name. “Yes, Sal. I’m fine.”

Salvador, Sal, the driver, it didn’t really matter all that much to him as long as he got his passengers to where they needed to go, and the cheques kept showing up in his mailbox. “You sure?”

The question was pointed, but not intrusive. “Yes,” Alex repeated.

It was a lie, but what was the harm in adding to the pile? If he wasn’t strapped in with the seatbelt, he probably would have curled into a ball. The thought of what was waiting for him back at home sent a rush to his gut that made him want to puke. How could he spin this? What series of words would he have to speak to get his parents to listen?

As they rolled along, Alex caught a glimpse of a car coming down the road in the opposite direction. No, not a car, a truck. An orange one at that. At first, a welp of joy formed in his throat. He wanted to tell Sal to stop and let him at least say hello or something. Then, he remembered why he couldn’t do that, and he pushed that feeling down. He watched as the orange truck took a turn onto a dirt road- their usual spot.

His eyes narrowed as he wondered why DeAndre was headed there without him. They hadn’t planned anything today.

Only then did he notice that he was pushing himself up against the tinted window, his hands practically clawing at the glass. “Air-conditioning too hot?” Sal asked, with his joke hidden under a lair of sincerity.

“No. Actually, it’s cold.” This statement took Alex by surprise. Up until now, he hadn’t noticed. But right now, it was like a chill was running up and down his body. “I’d appreciate some heat.”

Sal subtly cocked an eyebrow and reached a gloved hand to the controls. The air rushed in, though it must have been weak, because Alex couldn’t feel a thing. “That good?”

“Sure,” Alex didn’t care to correct him.

On the way by the dirt road, he caught a fleeting glimpse at the back bumper of DeAndre’s truck headed up the path.

The path that they weren’t ever meant to be on- or at least, that’s what people kept telling him.

The rest of the car ride was a hot streak of painful silence. Alex sat still, with only his lips moving as he idly mouthed the words that he was planning to say when he got home. ‘I’m sorry for my behavior. I should have told you about my friends.’ ‘No, all we did was hang out, nothing dangerous.’ ‘Yes, three months of grounding is fair.’

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Meanwhile, Sal was idly wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. After driving for so long, you pick up on some stuff. Then, after driving for longer, you start to care a bit. “Don’t listen to them.”

“What?” Alex stuttered, breaking from his trance.

“Don’t let them keep you down.”

The boy blinked, then nodded. “Easier said than done, Sal.”

The outside of their destination came into view. In the next few minutes, the car had pulled into the garage and shut off. Sal came around to open the door, but Alex beat him to it. The glass frame slid away, and he stepped out into the large empty room with a heavy weight on his chest. The two exchanged brief nods before going their separate ways.

The house had become uncomfortably dark under the cloudy grey sky. Alex could have sworn that it was brighter when he left in the morning, though, like most of his assumptions nowadays, that might have been a trick of the light. Moving deeper in, he felt like he was embarking down a steep tunnel. All the walls, decorated in achievements and praise, seemed to be getting closer together. Still, if there was a bright side to anything, it was that his parents were nowhere to be seen. Maybe he could just trot up to his room and pretend like nothing was wrong.

As he made it to the steps, he felt a presence behind him, so naturally he turned. Mrs. Gaiman’s white pantsuit stood out in the dark like a lightbulb. She walked into the living room, not looking up at her son as she grabbed a lawbook from a shelf. For a moment, her eyes did flicker to him as she took a seat on a armchair, though even this wasn’t an acknowledgement. It was a glance you give a dropped pin, or an ice cube, before you kick it under the fridge.

“I’m back,” Alex declared through the haze. “How’s…” She wasn’t listening to a word he said. So, he decided not to even bother.

Mrs. Gaiman made a living using her words to get the results she wanted. This meant that whenever she spoke, it should be an important matter, or it would be a waste. She never talked about the weather, or anything else that was so trivial. Sometimes, Alex wondered if she had any hobbies, or even an interest in something outside of work. If she did, it was a very well-kept secret. No, she wasn’t the type of person to waste her breath on unimportant topics.

And she never spoke to him very much.

Alex was half-way up the stairs before she graciously took the time to say a single sentence to him. “Your father is waiting for you in his office.”

The room somehow grew colder. “What for?”

Mrs. Gaiman only sat silently and flipped a page.

“Now?”

The slightest annoyed look up.

“But…” Why was he even trying? The jig was up. They knew.

Mr. Gaiman’s office was upstairs, right between his bedroom and his wife’s. It wasn’t the sort of place one goes in. It’s the type that one passes in the hall, hoping not to hear the click of the mahogany door opening. Not so much because of what was in the room- more so who was in it. As Alex approached, he felt his heart growing hard. This was a tactic he had learned a long time ago. It’s difficult to hurt stone, and what’s the point in armor except to protect the most vital parts of yourself? The door opened, and the stern face of his father greeted him idly.

“Sit down,” he said, or rather, instructed.

Alex obeyed. There was a chair already pulled out in front of the desk the man was sitting at. A fireplace rested behind him, although there was no fire to be had.

There was an eerie scratching sound as Mr. Gaiman focused on taking down a note on an ornate leather-bound notebook. It was something important, no doubt. Everything he did was ‘vital.’ That’s the reason he was always busy. The culprit behind the mystery of how he missed so many of his son’s ‘big’ moments. “Do you know why you are here?”

The boy nodded.

“Do you care to give me an explanation?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Then do so.”

He took a deep breath. This would need to be the performance of his lifetime. “Yes, it’s true. I told you that I took piano classes every Wednesday. That was a lie. I would say I’m sorry, but I think you would respect the fact that I do not wish to deceive you again. So, here’s the truth. Me and some of my friends like to hang out. We mess around, have fun, bowl- that sort of thing. I was aware that this wouldn’t be something that you would allow. My friends aren’t the type of people you would like. They’re rambunctious, rebellious, and free going, which aren’t traits you’ve ever aspired to instill in me. You’ve pushed me all my life to have the opposite qualities, in fact. Still, I would like to point out that my grades are still up. All A’s. I have perfect attendance in school, my teachers all have said I’m an outstanding student, and I’ve never been in trouble once. This shows that if you are concerned about their influence on me, you can put those worries aside. Yes, I’m sorry that I lied to you, but I like to think this is a part of growing up! I’m sure that when you were my age, you had a rebellious streak. It’s healthy to stretch the rules sometime, so long as you know where the limit is. But I understand that lying to you was still wrong. I’ll accept whatever punishment you think is best.”

Mr. Gaiman listened to him very carefully, then sighed. Retaking the pencil in his hand, he looked away, like he was thinking. “Their names?”

“Sorry?”

“The first and last names of your friends,” he clarified without an ounce of emotion in his voice.

Alex shook his head. “No.”

“No?” the man repeated.

“I’m not giving them to you,” he replied blankly. “Throughout my life, you’ve made sure that the people around me are the best that they can be. However, when they don’t live up to this expectation, you remove them. Do you remember the boy that used to live next door that I liked to play with? He’d come through the gap in our fence, and we’d play make believe in the backyard. Then, one day, he pushed me too hard, and I hurt my shoulder? Total accident, so there were no hard feelings. When I got home from the doctor’s office that same day, the gap in the fence was completely fixed. I didn’t hear from him again, and the next week, they moved away. I think about that a lot, and I don’t want it to happen again.”

The scratching stopped as Mr. Gaiman absorbed the response. His brow narrowed. “You do realize that your punishment will be far greater if you do not give up those names?”

This threat bounced off Alex’s hardened heart. “Yes, I’m prepared for that.”

“The names, or you will have six months’ detention.”

He could manage that. “I understand.”

“Without any privileges or electronics beyond school use.”

“I accept that.”

Mr. Gaiman tapped his pencil on his desk. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

This made Alex flinch. His father wasn’t the type of person to ask such a reassuring question. “I’m positive,” he replied, only slightly hesitating.

“I see,” he said, going back to writing. “I was curious.”

Something shifted. Perhaps it was a cloud overhead changing the light, or maybe there was something creeping in the dark confines of the room. “Curious?” he echoed. “About what?”

For the first time, Mr. Gaiman looked at his son. His expression was unbreakable, like a piece of steel, and his head tilted with a knowing stare. “I wanted to know how far this deception of yours would go. Now I see the extent of it.” The pencil scratching became louder as its wielder pressed deeper into the page. “You may go to your room. I have everything I need.”

“I don’t understand,” Alex said, confused. “I’m telling you the—”

“The truth?” Mr. Gaiman interrupted. “Do not insult me. Not a single word you’ve said since the time you’ve been in here has been anything close to the honesty that I thought I taught you.” He shook his head. “Tell me about the orange truck.”

“What about it?” With every new word, it was like his hardened heart was weakening. “Plenty of vehicles drive on our road.”

“But none specifically on the dates that your whereabouts are unaccounted for,” he said as he prodded the pencil harder. “One of your ‘friends?’”

How long had he been watching? “Yes. They pick me up,” he replied, still desperately holding onto his story.

“Give me his name,” Mr. Gaiman demanded.

Alex shook his head. “No. He has nothing to do with this.”

“On the contrary. I believe that he has everything to do with this.” His chest heaved as he took in a large, disappointed sigh. “In fact, I would say he is the very root of the problem.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy said, crossing his arms. “I’ve told you already that I’m not going to give you their names. But it doesn’t matter all that much, does it? Whatever I do, you’re going to make sure I never see them again. So, I’m ensuring that whatever happens, it will be on me, and not them. It’s my fault this—”

“Tell me, how much of this lie do you think I believe?” Mr. Gaiman interrupted sharply.

This was a bluff to see if he would crack. It had to be. “I—”

“I will give you one more chance to tell me the truth,” he said, his face blank but his words full of certainty. “Continuing this charade is pointless. The boy in the truck, tell me his name. Tell me his name because it’s the only one that really exists.”

Alex could feel his body trembling as his entire story, the fake world that he had constructed to keep himself safe, crumbled around him like he was in an earthquake. Ever since he was young, he wondered how much his father truly knew him. Rarely did they ever talk, and if they did, it was about school or job prospects. For a while, he wondered if his parents even knew that he lived in the same house as them. But now, looking into his father’s eyes, he realized the truth, and it pierced straight through his exposed heart. Mr. Gaiman did know his son. He always had. Though he never cared enough to engage, or to display an interest, or to even show up at all. Except now, in this moment, when decided to use all that knowledge, all that time spent watching his son grow up, against him. Now, when it benefited himself the most.

“I said,” the boy began, his voice wavering. “No.”

Snap!

The pencil broke in half as Mr. Gaiman applied far too much pressure. Despite this, his face did not show any sigh of anger, sadness, or even disappointment. It was just… blank. Then, pushing his chair back from the desk, he stood up. He towered in height, making the room seem smaller in comparison. He looked down at his son and shook his head. “DeAndre Sullivan.”

The words hung loosely in the foggy air.

“Who?” Alex asked, feeling the coldness inside of him filling his veins full of ice.

“The boy in the orange truck,” his father clarified. “The one that takes you away to who-knows-where, to do… who-knows-what. That’s his name.” Idly, he reached down and flipped through some papers contained within a yellow file. “The truck is registered to a Mr. Colsen Sullivan, though he did not fit the driver’s description. He does, however, have one son, going by the aforementioned name. It doesn’t take much to find these things out, you see. Especially in my position.”

Alex’s mind was blank. There were no more lies to tell, or things to keep secret. He didn’t know what to do. “You’ve been… stalking me?”

The man tilted his head. “I always keep my eye on potential points of disparity or weakness.”

“Why?” he asked simply.

“It’s good practice,” came the simple explanation.

“That wasn’t what I was asking.” Alex felt his vision drift away and envelop itself in the dark. “Why do you care so much about what I do, but not at all? I tried to be the son you wanted. Didn’t I do everything you said? Didn’t I stay in the corner for as long as you told me to?”

The towering man’s eyes narrowed, but his son wasn’t finished.

“Yeah, his name is DeAndre, and I love him, dad. There! That’s the truth you wanted.” Even through his father’s steely expression, he could see that his bluntness somewhat threw him off. “I met him at the drugstore. We bumped into each other like some stupid romcom, but we didn’t really talk much. Then, I started going to the store more and more, for no reason. So did he. The rest is history, I guess. He’s strong, nice, and dependable. I think you’d like those traits in my partner, but too bad he isn’t a girl, right? Too bad that you have an image you need to keep up with for all your political friends! Gotta think of the voters! It would be a bad look to have me running around and making a scene if I’m not too careful. Is that why? Is that what this is all about?”

Nothing.

Alex slipped from his seat, trying to stand toe to toe with the man before him, but came up a foot and half too short. “I’m so tired of lying. So tired of keeping myself hidden. So, just tell me! Tell me what I need to do to make you love me and I’ll do it, dad! I’ll really do it!”

The man looked down at his son and seemed confused. It was like he was trying to read a book in a language he didn’t understand. Then he shifted, regaining his usual infallible composure as though it had never left. Casually, he made his way back into his chair and retrieved a new pencil from a drawer. “Wrong,” he said, starting to write again.

“What?” he asked, his face hot-red.

“It’s not ‘dad,’” he clarified. “It’s ‘Mr. Gaiman.’”

Alex watched as his father went back to work. The conversation was over. It was finished. He knew what he was supposed to do, as the many previous punishments he’d suffered before had taught him. He’d walk into his room, close the door, and stay there until he was finished crying. Then he’d get on with it. It didn’t matter how long he was grounded, because it was all the same. No, but not this time. He couldn’t go back to the way things were now. “I’ll leave,” he said slowly. “I’ll leave, and you will never see me again.”

Mr. Gaiman’s pencil moved softly along the page. “Where would you go?”

He thought for a moment, before simply replying, “away.”

“Then go.”

“What?”

He didn’t bother repeating himself.

“Is that it?” the boy asked, solemnly.

“If you choose it to be,” the man replied. “But once you realize that the path you take is one leading to folly, hardship, and destruction, you will turn around and come back. Remember that when you’re walking, and when you feel that your feet will fall off. Remember that you failed at something that was set up for you to win, if only you didn’t reject it.”

There were a million things Alex wanted to say, but all of them felt so trivial now. He wanted to lash out and find the words to make his father feel guilty for everything that he’d done. They had to be out there, somewhere- the beautiful string of sounds that would finally break through all the nonsense and get his point across. Yet, they weren’t here now when he needed them the most. So, he turned around, opened the door, and disappeared without another word.

Before he left, he took a quick trip to his room. He emptied out the contents of his school bag. Textbooks, fliers, and stationary all piled on the floor in a heap. They wouldn’t be needed anymore. Thoughtlessly, he stuffed all the clothes that could fit inside. As he worked, he wondered if he was really doing this? Is this really happening? The sound of a zipper shutting tight answered those questions.

As he walked down the stairs, he noticed that his mother hadn’t moved from her position. She was a quick reader, and already her spot in the book was far beyond the place he had last seen it in. The bag was now over his shoulder and full to the brim. Mrs. Gaiman’s eyes flickered up, taking in the peculiar sight of her son headed towards the door. A glimpse of curiosity spread across her face, then quickly replaced by a look of understanding. It was quite obvious what he was doing.

“I’m going,” Alex said, stopping for a moment.

Mrs. Gaiman simply nodded and flipped a page.

And that was that.

…

There was only one place he could think to go.

The grey clouds hadn’t parted, and the sun had yet to be seen, so only a small amount of light shone down on the abandoned field parted by muddy tire-tracks. Howling wind was whipping the tall yellow grass side to side, with the occasional bristle breaking off and flying away. It hadn’t rained, but the ground still felt soft, like a flood had passed through when no one was looking. The distinct smell of ozone was but a faint trace. Perhaps lightning would be striking soon.

At the very end of the path, an orange truck was parked. Before it, sitting on a short cliff side, was its driver. DeAndre was looking out at the view of the town, unmoving beneath an opening of bending trees. He heard footsteps approaching and knew immediately who it was.

“They know,” Alex spoke, out of breath from such a long walk. “They know about us.”

DeAndre didn’t turn or stand up to greet him. Instead, he looked on and said, “yeah.”

The schoolbag full of clothes dragged along the ground as Alex struggled to carry it. “You’re not surprised?”

“My dad got a call today,” DeAndre began, his voice somber. “From a ‘very respectable man.’ Told him everything, apparently.”

Alex felt an empty feeling mixing with the cold in his chest. “Did he believe him?”

“Yeah.”

A rock fell and bounced down the cliffside as Alex took a seat. The two sat silently, letting the leaves blow by. Then, DeAndre turned, a mountain of hurt in his eyes. “You promised me this wouldn’t happen.”

Alex bit his lip. “I know. But—”

“You lied,” he spat. “Again.”

“I didn’t mean to. I swear to you, I did everything to stop it.”

“Not everything.” He looked away. “This should have never happened.”

Alex nodded. “I should’ve been more careful! They were watching me, and I don’t know when they started. Maybe it was the day I came back with that bruise? Or they could have seen your truck through the window one too many times?”

“No, you’re not getting it!” DeAndre shouted. “I mean me and you. This relationship… it was all wrong. Wrong from the start!”

“Stop that!” Alex shouted back. “You keep acting like we’re the ones who have the problem!”

“Don’t we?” His head snapped around; the hurt was now replaced with anger. “Ever since I met you, it’s like I’ve been looking behind my back and waiting for something bad to happen! Every day I would wake up and wonder if I still had a home just because of you. Because I wanted to be with you!” Again, he looked away. “It wasn’t worth it.”

The words hit like bullets. “You don’t mean that.”

DeAndre huffed. “He kicked me out. That’s it. Job’s gone, too. Everything that I said would happen did.”

“I’m—”

“Sorry?” he finished. “No, you’re not. If you actually cared, this would have all been over months ago.”

“So, this is all on me, then? It’s my fault that I didn’t want to break up with you when the time was right? I’m not your warden! I didn’t keep you captive! If you wanted to go, then you could have left! Forgive me for fucking loving you!”

“You promised me we’d be safe,” he hissed. “You said that they wouldn’t find out!”

“I was wrong, okay? Do you think I didn’t try with every ounce of me to keep it secret?” Alex cried.

“You failed!” The words rang out, and for a second the wind itself seemed to stop. “You failed!”

The words echoed through Alex’s ears, again and again. They tunneled down into the core of him, lodging somewhere they could never be removed. For the first time in his life, he was utterly at a loss. “I…” he stuttered. “They…”

A row of dirt slipped down the cliffside as DeAndre stood. “I don’t want to hear it.” He moved away, heading back towards his truck.

Alex clambered to get up and follow him, leaving his bag. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry! I tried. I swear I did! Please, don’t walk away!”

“What do you want me to do?” DeAndre asked, stepping closer and getting in his face. “Should I go back to my father and beg him to take me back? Or do you want us to run away? Is that why you packed a bag? Want to just hop in my truck and drive someplace new so that we can be together?”

“I…” He felt ashamed that the thought had crossed his mind. “Why not? Why can’t we just run away? I’m sure we’ll make do! I’ll find a job, and we can—”

DeAndre shoved him away. “That’s not how this works!” The wind started to blow harder. A storm was coming, and there was no holding it back. “My dad gave me a choice. Either I’m out on the street with nothing, or I join the army. That’s my options.”

“What?” Alex’s face was the picture of confusion. “That’s crazy! You can’t be seriously thinking about doing it.”

“Maybe it will do me some good.” He sniffled, gritting his teeth as he moved back to his truck. “Straighten me out. Make me stronger. More resilient.”

Alex didn’t let the shove stop him from following. “Oh yeah? You really think you need those things? Well, go on then! Go and join! Serve for however long you think it will take you to get better! Then, when you come home, you’ll look in the mirror and you’ll see that nothing’s changed. The only difference will be that you’ll know how to use a gun and fold a bed properly. Everything else will still be the same old you that you left!” The two were inches away now, staring each other in the face. “Or maybe you won’t come home. Something could happen, and the world will lose another nameless soldier. But that would be okay, right? Because that fate would be so much better than staying here and loving someone like me!”

The fire in DeAndres’ eyes dimmed, but only for a moment. Soon, his resolve returned to him. “Always with the dramatics… You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” he asked, genuinely.

“Alex, I stopped believing what you say a long time ago.” With that, he made a move to get in his truck. Before he could, he was stopped as his old partner stepped in front of it. “Move.”

“No,” he said. “This isn’t over.”

“Move!” DeAndre demanded.

“Why should I?” Alex asked, throwing his arms out. “You don’t know what you’re saying! Let’s stay and talk this out. We can make it work.”

DeAndre seemed to stop and consider the proposition, but then he remembered himself. Reaching out, he grabbed the door handle from around his old partner. The two were close now, almost in a hug, so there was no mistaking the emotion on the other’s face. “Let me go, Alex.”

“I don’t think I can.” Alex’s eyes were betraying him. They were welling up with tears, and he hoped that the storm would hurry up so he could hide them in the rain. The look on DeAndre’s face was different. No tears, but there was a sadness there. It was the look of resolve, like when you resign yourself to having lost something you cared for deeply.

Thunder graveled in the distance, the two feeling the wind and each other’s breath breezing past them. “You have to,” said DeAndre as the door swung open.

Alex spun around, trying to push back against the inevitable, only to find it hitting him hard across the head. The path below him was curved, so as he fell onto his back, he started to roll down and away. Above him, as he spun, the trees appeared to be reaching down to meet the dark sky, and the ground made for an unnerving ceiling. He heard DeAndre call out in alarm, and although he couldn’t make anything out clearly in the tumble, it looked as though he had tried to reach out to grab him.

Suddenly, he was doubled over, with his bruised face in his scraped hands. “I’m sorry, man,” someone above him spoke.

Someone he didn’t know yet.

Alex could have sworn that he and DeAndre were the only two people here, but that voice didn’t belong to either of them. It was scraggly, hushed, and on edge, but yet hauntingly familiar. When he looked up, he found that he was right. They weren’t alone. Two glowing orbs of yellow light were standing off to the side. Below them there was a body that seemed to wrap down and around itself like a flag around a pole. It didn’t have a mouth, yet he knew instinctually that this was the source of the voice.

“No,” Alex said, confused. “There was nothing else here! We were alone… you weren’t here.”

And with those words, the strange creature vanished, as though it was blown away by the wind.

“Are you okay?” DeAndre asked from next to his truck.

“Did you…” Alex blinked. What was he thinking about? “Yeah.”

“Good,” he replied, a look of worry fading. Turning away, he slipped inside the vehicle and twisted the key. The engine rattled to life as a puff of exhaust fumes floated into the air. “Go home.”

Alex was standing now, trying to keep himself together. “I can’t.”

“They kicked you out?”

“No, I—”

“Yeah.” He frowned. “I thought so.”

The truck shifted as it came out of park, then lurched forward as it started to roll away. “Wait!” Alex cried, trying to run but stumbling.

DeAndre sighed, slowing down only a bit. “What?”

“Did you…” Alex closed his eyes, trying to find the right words. “You loved me too. Right?”

The two stared at one another for a cold second of eternity. Then, DeAndre looked away, and hit the gas. The orange truck was there for a minute, standing out like a sore thumb in all the grey, and then it was gone.

Alex started to cry. The sad sobs sounded so pathetic, so he tried to stop himself. It only made things worse. Grabbing his bag, he retraced his steps down the trail. It felt impossible to feel so hollow and yet so full of brokenness. He hated himself for crying- he hated himself for a lot of things now. This was all his fault, wasn’t it? His grand mistake.

As he finally reached the road, he looked from side to side, hoping that he could catch a glimpse of DeAndre. But he was long gone by now. There was another round of thunder, and the grass heralded the coming of the storm. What was he doing? Why was he even here? He turned left and started to make his way back home. His parents would take him back. They probably wouldn’t say a thing when he walked through the door. He’d walk up to his room like nothing had ever happened. Yet, every time that he would look at his father, he would know that the man was right.

You failed. You failed. You failed.

The words that were echoing through his head were not his own. They were his father’s. Or maybe they were DeAndre’s. Overtime, he would realize that it was a little of both.

Alex’s feet felt raw, and his body was so tired. But he knew the way home. In a couple of painful hours, he could be sleeping in his bed, trying to forget every mistake he ever made. From now on, no matter where he was, all of his nights would be like that. A highlight reel of where he went wrong. Every day, the footage would get longer and longer, as new failures got added to the list. It would never end, he realized.

That was when he stopped.

The wind in the bending trees followed suit, and all was still.

“What’s one more mistake?” he asked himself.

He turned around, his heels skidding across the pavement. As he continued back the way he came, the breeze returned. No matter what he did, it was going to be wrong. The story of his life, it seemed.

The path ahead was unknown, and that was scary. By no means was it going to be easy, or well-trodden, as some had put it. But whatever it was, wherever he was going, it would be his path. The voice of doubt played loudly in his head at every step, but he kept marching.

You failed, it said.

Yes, but maybe someday, he could get it right.