1997 – Memphis, TN

I take a deep breath as I walk out on the stage and unshoulder my guitar. This is it. My big debut. I'm eighteen-years-old and wouldn't even be allowed in this bar if I wasn't about to perform. I just hope the agent from Nashville Records starts paying attention to me instead of the waitress who currently has his attention.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," I begin. "My name is Hank Nelson, and I'm going to sing you one of my favorite songs."

There's no reaction from the crowd. That's okay. I got this. I strum my guitar and start belting out the lyrics to All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight by Hank Williams Jr. This isn't my favorite song. Not by a long shot. But I can sing it well, and according to some, my voice sounds like I'm the bastard child of Hank Jr. and Willie, which is why my stage name is an homage to them both.

"That's right!" I say into the microphone once a few people are engaged. "I bet I got a lot of rowdy friends here tonight, don't I? I see you, miss. Shake it for me, yeah sweetie."

The woman shaking her ass and tits is old enough to be my mother. She's so drunk I'm surprised she can stand, much less shake what the good lord gave her. But that doesn't matter. She's engaged and engagement is crucial. That's what my dad used to say, at least. He never made it big, but he could rock a bar like he was Garth fucking Brooks, and I learned a lot from my old man.

The man from Nashville Records is finally paying attention. I stomp my feet, dance, and pretend like I'm born to sing this song. I'm a god damn rock star. Well, a country star—rock stardom comes later. I've got a five year plan. I'm going to break into the music industry singing country, then pivot when the time is right. I'm going to be more famous than Elvis. More famous than The Beatles. My name will be in every conversation for greatest of all time.

"Alright, rowdy friends! The bartender looks lonely, so let me sing you something while you get another round!" I yell into the mic, then I slow it down to sing Seven Spanish Angels by Willie Nelson.

Rock them. Make them feel something. Show my range. Music is about more than the melody. I'm not just a singer. I'm an entertainer, and damn it, these fuckers are going to be entertained.

"Put the kids to bed folks, because it looks like her shirt is coming off!" I strum my guitar and grin. "Show us those tits, baby."

The drunk woman swings her shirt above her head and tosses it at me, then she reaches for her bra, but the guy she's with intervenes. He shoots me a look that doesn't look friendly, so I decide to stop encouraging her. I finish my song, launch into the next one, and nod to the guy from Nashville Records. He's paying close attention now. He doesn't even look at the waitress when she brings another drink.

A lot of people are dancing when I finish my set. I introduce the next act, shoulder my guitar, and walk off the stage. I stifle a smile when I see the record producer walking my way.

"Hank Nelson, was it?" the older man asks.

"That's right," I confirm, turning to him. "Well, that's my stage name. I normally go by Henry."

"Nah, your name's Hank, kid," he chuckles, lighting a cigar and extending his hand. "And if you're a fan of Bocephus, this is the part where I light a cigar and stick my hand out. Earl Davis, Nashville Records."

"Henry Price," I reply, shaking his hand. "Or just call me Hank Nelson, since that's the name you want on that contract, isn't it?"

"Damn straight it is, sonny boy." The man grins. "I'm going to make you into a star."

"Yes, sir," I say, a smile as big as the Grand Canyon spreading across my face. "And I just turned eighteen, so you don't even need to talk to my parents."

"Even better." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a business card. "Be here on Monday morning at eight o'clock. If you've got an agent, bring them with you."

"I'll be there," I reply, taking his card.

The five year plan is officially underway. My dad would be even more excited than I am, if he lived long enough to witness this moment. I'm getting signed, and not by one of those scummy record labels, either. Nashville Records is the big time and they've got a lot of talent under their banner. By this time next year, I could be opening for Tim McGraw or Kenny Chesney.

I watch the guy leave, then I hurry to the pay phone. I may not be the biggest fan of country music, but I'm country boy at heart, so the first person I need to call is my mama. My fingers tremble as I drop my quarter into the phone and dial the number.

"Mama, you'll never believe what happened!" I say excitedly. "The guy from Nashville Records was here, just like Billy said! They want to sign me!"

"That's great, Henry," she sighs into the receiver. "Your daddy would be so proud."

"Are you okay, Mama? You don't sound well." I lean against the phone and wipe some sweat off my brow. "Did you take the medicine the doctor gave you?"

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"I'm fine, darling," she sighs again. "Don't you worry about me. I'm going to be front row at your first concert."

"I know you will, Mama." I smile. "And once I get signed, everything is going to be better. We'll find a new doctor for you—that specialist in Cleveland. The one Jenny found on AOL."

"Okay, Henry," she replies. "But I'm tired, so I need to lay down. Call me tomorrow."

"I will, Mama," I promise. "I'll talk to you then."

I hang up the phone and take a moment to wipe my eyes before turning around. As soon as I do, I'm staring at a fist. It hits me in the nose so hard I see stars and blood gushes down my face as I hit the ground. I look up to see the man from earlier. He looks even angrier now.

"You think you're hot shit, boy!" a man's voice booms. "Telling my old lady to show you her tits!?"

"Take it outside!" the bartender yells.

"Gladly," the man growls, reaching down to grab me by the shirt. "Outside, boy. You got a beating coming."

Nobody seems interested in intervening on my behalf. I'm barely more than a kid, but they don't care. The man roughly drags me to the door and throws me against it. The door flies open and I spill into the parking lot, trying to get my feet underneath me.

"Hey man, I'm just a singer," I offer, holding my hands up. "I don't want any trouble."

"You already found trouble," he says angrily, pushing me back.

He takes another swing, and since I'm ready for it this time, I'm able to duck. I've been in a scrap or two in my time, so I use my speed and his drunkenness to my advantage, lighting him up with some punches to the midsection before unleashing my best Mike Tyson's Punch-Out uppercut. It catches him in the jaw, and I feel good about my chances before something hard slams into my skull. I see stars, then blood, as broken pieces of the beer bottle I was struck by cascade down my shoulders. I turn around in time to see the woman from earlier, then I'm slammed into the ground so hard I pass out.

Darkness.

Then a flickering light.

I've been here before. This fucking dream. I hate it. It's been a recurring nightmare for years. I'm standing on a pile of red dirt. The sky has a copper hue, and two moons are above me.

"There he is! Get him!" a voice calls out, and I see riders on horseback thundering towards me.

I take off running. I'm aware I'm trapped in a dream, but I can't wake myself up. That's how it always is. I'm probably deeper into it than ever since I got knocked out instead of falling asleep peacefully on my pillow.

Then the old man in a brown robe appears on a hill to my left, just like before. He beckons me, and I turn towards him. If I can make it to him, I'll be safe. I'm not sure how I know that, but I do. This is usually where I wake up. I get close enough to see the man's sky-blue eyes, then I'm jolted awake. Except that doesn't happen this time. I get closer and closer until I'm almost on top of him.

"Hurry!" he says, taking me by the arm. "There isn't much time. Your training must begin immediately."

This is new. I should be staring at the ceiling—or in this case, the night sky—trying to shake off the dream. But that doesn't happen. He ushers me down the hill, along a path that opens into a forest, and I finally get enough composure to pull away.

"Hey, I don't want to go with you," I protest. "Who were those guys that were chasing me?"

"Blood Hunters," the old man says, taking my arm again. "And they're still after us, so we don't have time to talk."

The old man darts away from the path. He's nimble for a guy who looks like he should be in a nursing home. I pinch my arm and slap myself across the face, but I don't wake up, so I follow the old man.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, looking around and noticing all sorts of strange things in the forest. There are trees that move like they're alive, flowers that dodge our steps so we don't trample them, and a chipmunk that is gnawing on an eyeball. I hope it isn't human.

"We're almost there," the old man rasps. "You're late, but we can still stop the ritual if we begin your training immediately."

"Ritual?" I repeat, but he doesn't respond.

The old man leads me deep into the forest. It feels like hours are passing, but I'm in a dreamy haze that makes me unsure if my perception of time is correct. Finally, we break into a clearing and I see a cave, along with what appears to be a small village of make-shift tents and thatch huts. Several people exit them, watching as we pass. They're all dirty, unkempt, and scrawny.

"Are you the hero!?" a little girl asks, running up and grabbing my hand. "We've been waiting so long…"

The little girl has the greenest eyes I've ever seen, but they're filled with sadness. Her dirty blonde hair is matted to her face. Her small hand trembles as she turns my arm, and I see a mark I've never seen before. My attention is drawn to it immediately. It's jagged like a scar, but seems to form some sort of pattern I don't recognize.

"It's you!" the little girl says excitedly. "You have the mark!"

More people surround me and I look around in confusion. The old man steps forward and holds up his hands.

"He has to begin his training," the old man states firmly. "There's no time to lose."

"W-what's your name?" the little girl asks, the sadness in her eyes now replaced with something different. It almost looks like hope.

"Hank Nelson," I respond without thinking. "But I'm just… dreaming."

I take a few steps back and pull away from the girl. The crowd doesn't try to block me, and they clear a path, which allows me to keep walking.

"Please don't leave," the old man says, closing the distance between us. "We need you. The link between our worlds will be broken once the ritual is complete. I'm not sure I have the power to bring you here again."

"You're confusing me with someone else," I mutter. "I'm no hero. I'm just a singer."

"You're the-" the old man begins, but I turn away before he can finish.

I have no idea what this is, but I don't want any part of it. I need to wake up. I barrel into the woods and I'm being chased again. This time, by the old man and the people that claimed I was their hero. I guess the only thing I do in this dream is run away from people. There's shouting behind me, but I ignore it and continue on.

Then everything goes black.

And I'm staring at lights above my head. I'm in the hospital. I guess it's no surprise I ended up here. My head is pounding, especially in the back.

"Fuck," I groan, touching my head. "I'm really tired of that dream."

"Ah, you're awake," a woman's voice says. "Good. I'll let the doctor know."

I blink a few times and see a nurse. There's an IV in my arm. She fiddles with one of the devices I'm hooked up to, then hurries out of my room. I try to sit up, but I'm in too much pain, so I lean back and close my eyes.

Green eyes immediately haunt me.

Except now, they're bleeding.