 
come as you are

a novella

Christopher Waltz

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Author's Name

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For Tyler Clementi, whose tragic death is proof that the world has a long way to go before it can be considered a good place. And for James Clementi, whose bravery is proof we might one day get there.

And for Kurt Cobain and the band Nirvana, whose music has touched and inspired millions.

Without any of them, this story would not exist.

### Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

About the Author

Chapter 1

"Connor," my mother said as I put the phone up to my ear and answered with a low, guttural moan that was meant to tell her I was still sleeping. It was just past six in the morning, but her voice was frantic and I could hear her holding back tears. The only thing I didn't know was if they were tears of sorrow or joy. It was honestly hard to tell with my mother.

"They found August," she said.

This was the moment I'd been waiting for, that we all had been waiting for, for nearly two months. My younger brother had run away from home in September and we hadn't heard from him since.

August had disappeared, technically, on September 2nd, but he had been smart about it, or as smart as someone planning on running away from home can be. He had conveniently lied to our mother and father, telling them he would be staying at a friend's house for the weekend and that he would be home in time for dinner and to get his homework done on Sunday night. My parents should have seen this as an instant red flag, as August really had no friends.

That Monday, I awoke to my phone ringing and answered to the nearly-frantic voice of our mother, much like the call I had just answered, asking if I'd seen or heard from my little brother over the weekend. I, of course, had not heard from him that weekend and had, in fact, not even seen August since my birthday, two weeks earlier. (Ironically enough, I had been born in August and my younger brother had been named August. Make of it what you will.)

"Has he called you?" our mother asked, her tone noticeably higher than normal.

I took a moment to yawn, as it was before seven in the morning, and answered her promptly. "No, Mom, I haven't heard from him since the party. He told me 'happy birthday' and went back to brooding in the corner like he always does." It was harsh, but true. My brother had what anyone would call emotional problems and often avoided any and all conversational situations. The fact he and I had spoken for more than five minutes was practically a miracle.

"This is serious, Con-nor!" My mother snapped at me. The way she said my name sent shivers through my spine. It was a common, normal name, but when she put emphasis on the second syllable like that, it would make anyone cringe.

"What's going on, Mom? Did he run away again?" I asked. I was an aspiring musician, trying to feed on the fame of past generations; I wanted to be the next big thing, and my family's personal problems were, at the time, the least of my worries.

There was hesitation on the other end of the phone and I waited impatiently for my mother's response. I had a recording session with my band later that day and had hoped to sleep until at least ten or eleven. "He lied to us," she said calmly.

"Mom." I was trying to mask my frustration. I could tell my mother was genuinely worried, but this was no big deal to me; he lied all the time. August was known to lie about anything from his grades and other aspects of school to what he had for lunch that day. It was as if he'd made a hobby of it. "Is this news?"

She was obviously choosing her words very carefully. "Well, no, but we got into a fight the day before he left," she admitted as I waited, silent, for her explanation to go on. "It was a big argument that I think everyone is ashamed about. We all overreacted." I thought for a moment about how my mother's use of the word 'overreacted' could have easily been an understatement.

This was when she explained that he had left on Friday and hadn't been seen nor heard from since. I wasn't worried by any means, but the truth of the matter sunk in that August had run off and could have made it a pretty great distance in three days' time, depending on his mode of transportation. He didn't drive, but he could have easily hitched a ride or even scraped up enough cash for a taxi.

As we were growing up, it wasn't uncommon for August to pack his backpack full of items he deemed essential for survival (often including peanut butter, clean underwear, and his favorite CDs) and hit the road, even if hitting the road only meant walking a few blocks, getting scared, and coming home an hour later. Often his flight attempts went unnoticed by Mom and Dad, but I was keen to his actions.

As all this was going on, as I went with my parents to file a missing person's report, I knew that deep down, they blamed me for his disappearance. Yes, they had gotten into a heated argument with him, but I was the one he idolized. I was the older brother who had gone against the grain and tried his hand in the music industry, if you could call playing one or two shows a week in cramped, smoke-filled bars being a part of the music industry. But still, August longed to be like me and his longtime hero, Kurt Cobain. In fact, the day I decided to move out of my family's Anderson, California home and abandon working in the family business was probably one of the only times I ever saw August crack a smile. He and I were alike in the sense that neither of us ever wanted to be funeral directors like our father.

That's right; Thomas J. Sennett was owner and operator of Sennett Funeral Home, located at the heart of downtown Anderson, a family tradition since 1958. He had grown up in the same house I had grown up in, following his father around the funeral parlor, preparing the deceased for their viewings and helping mourning families deal with their losses. However, while Thomas J. had been eager to get his mortician's license, I had jumped ship shortly after turning nineteen and got the hell out of Dodge before it was too late. However, with me gone, the only living male heir for my father to turn his kingdom over to would be my brother, who also wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

Thinking back, it must have been rather depressing for Dad to be part of a dying breed, but how could anyone in the funeral business expect to be anything but depressed at all times?

I was snapped back to the present by my mother's continued sobs. "Did you hear me, Connor? Did you hear me?"

I wasted no time in answering. "Yes, I heard you."

"He's been living in Aberdeen, Washington," she said. "He got drunk and fell off a bridge." What she said next was so muffled by her sobs that I couldn't even begin to make it out. Trying to calm her, I was at a loss for words myself. It seemed he really was living the life of a rock star.

He was a special, bright, extraordinary guy, but the kid had no follow through. That is, until the night he drunkenly fell from the Young Street Bridge, plummeting into the Wishkah River below. Luckily, he had been dragged to the shore by a kid named Ezra who he had been spending his time with on the streets of Washington.

"He's in Aberdeen?" I asked. It made perfect sense to me now; Aberdeen, Washington had been the birthplace of musical legend Kurt Cobain. My brother, wanting to follow in his footsteps, would obviously travel there in hopes of starting his own music career ten hours away from his dominating parents. In the back of my mind, I wondered if he realized how cliché his actions had been. Probably not; he likely thought it had been the best plan in the world.

The entire world in front of him, and he ran away to a dumpy town ten hours from home.

Mom gave herself a second to calm down and began to speak again. "Yes, at Grays Harbor Hospital. We have to go pick him up today."

She had said the word I honestly had hoped she wouldn't. 'We.' I could tell by the sound in her voice, she wanted me to travel with her, and probably for good reason, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. Why couldn't Dad go with her?

Without notice, she seemingly read my mind and sobbed an answer. "Your father wants to come, but he has so many clients at the parlor." That's what they called it, 'the parlor.' "He can't afford to leave and get behind schedule. Will you please come with me, Connor?"

I mulled the thought over in my head, trying not to take too long to answer. Aberdeen was roughly ten hours away, which meant that if we left soon, we could be there by early evening. We'd have to check August out of the hospital and would probably end up staying the night in Washington, but to be honest, I really didn't want my mother going on this trip alone. They didn't call Aberdeen the Hellhole of the Pacific for nothing, and if for no other reason than her safety and sanity, I thought it best for me to drive her up there, even if I really didn't want to.

I had never been known for landing any "Son of the Year" awards, but this was a different situation.

And there was also August to think about. He could be a handful on a good day, and chances were this was not going to be a good day. He didn't want to come home, and the last person he would want to see was our mother. To him, she was judge, jury, and executioner, shackling his legs and dragging him back to the prison of Anderson, California.

"Yes, of course I'll go with you," I said calmly, yet wincing at the words as they came out of my mouth.

Her tears subsided momentarily. "Oh, thank you so much, sweetie," she managed to say, adding, "I want to leave before eight, so get a move on," before hanging up.

As I rolled out of bed and made my way groggily to the shower, I took a moment to think about what could happen in the day to come. My mother and I, though apparently doing better in our relationship than she and August, didn't really get along too well. It wasn't that we hated each other or even resented one another; it was simply awkward that I, according to her, had broken my father's heart the day I'd moved out and abandoned their hopes and dreams of me one day running the parlor.

It wasn't like my leaving had ruined the company or anything. It was a mom and pop kind of business anyway, making most of its money from loyal families who had entrusted every dead relative to my father or grandfather in recent history. And, in my absence, Dad had forked up the cash to hire an intern, Arthur, an overly calm type of guy who seemed as if he would snap and murder everyone near him if only slightly provoked. But who was I kidding; he was good at his job and would eventually inherit Sennett Funeral Home. Or at least I hoped so.

After my shower, which I admittedly stretched out as long as I could, I quickly dressed in a dark orange t-shirt and the closest pair of jeans I could find on the floor. I had never considered myself housekeeper material and usually didn't even bother cleaning up after myself. However, it proved useful when I needed to find pants fast, like in this particular situation.

Then, after snatching my car keys from the floor next to my bed, I was heading out the door and making my way over to my parent's house. Little did I know, this would be the beginning of a series of events that would forever change my life.

Chapter 2

As I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, Sennett Funeral Home, the large sign erected in the front yard reminded me of my shortcomings in life. There was no "& Sons" on the sign as my father and mother had hoped to have happened by now, but much to my dismay "& Arthur" still had not been added either.

The house itself, though terrifying in its own way, was as beautiful and grand as it had ever been. After spending nineteen years seemingly trapped inside, I had made it a point to avoid returning there as much as possible in the five years I had been gone. I would come around for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but often would suggest holding birthday parties or other family gatherings at secondary sources so as to not have to go home again.

I sat in the driveway, engine running, hoping my mother would just come out of the house with her bag packed, hop in my car, and we could be on our way. No such luck existed though. She did walk out of the house with a bag in her hand, but instead of getting in my car, she motioned for me get out and meet her next to the newest of Dad's two hearses.

This couldn't be happening.

Biting my lip, I killed the ignition and stepped out of my beat up 1985 Volkswagen Golf that I had affectionately named Rusty. I purposefully left my overnight bag in the car though, hoping I could convince my mom to take my car instead of the hearse.

"Hi, honey," she said. Though her face was momentarily dry, I could tell it hadn't been long since she had been crying. It seemed strange to me that she would shed so many tears after having found August. She really hadn't cried that much the entire time he was missing. "Did you pack a bag?" she asked.

"Yeah, Mom," I said. "It's in the backseat of Rusty."

She gave a small laugh as I used my car's nickname, but it faded away quickly with her smile. Her eyes were watering up again and at that moment, I was sure she had gone insane. No one should spend as much time crying as Vada Sennett had in the past couple of hours. "Your father gave me the keys to the new hearse. He said we could take it and that he would use the old one for business until we get back."

I tried to hide my frustration and just go along with it, but it seemed so morbid to be driving around, especially crossing state lines, in a brand new hearse.

"Seriously?" I asked.

She simply nodded, not making eye contact with me.

Frustrated, I chose not to choose this battle and walked back to my car, pulling my bag from the backseat and slinging it over my shoulder as I made my way back to my mother.

"Should I drive?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Is Dad going to see us off or anything?" My father wasn't the most sentimental of men, but I at least thought he'd come outside and say goodbye to his wife and oldest son as they were about to drive two states' distance to bring back his youngest runaway.

Mom hesitated, knowing what she was about to say might anger me, or upset me, or bring forth some other unknown emotion. "He's downstairs with a client... but he asked me to send you in before we took off."

Shit.

"It's the least you can do," she stated firmly. This was the mother I knew. At first, she had been hidden under the sobbing mess of a woman I'd encountered on the phone this morning, but now the true Vada Sennett was emerging, even if only to remind me of how much I owed my father for breaking his heart.

Again, I didn't even try to argue with her and immediately turned in the direction of the front of the house. Walking up the porch steps, I felt as if the house were pulling me in, devouring me without any chance of escape. It was a monster with ferocious, sharp teeth, dying to rip me limb from limb the closer I got to the front door. I could feel my back subconsciously arching away from the entrance as I reached forward and turned the brass handle in front of me.

Of course, it was just a house and the only monsters inside were my own memories that, given my way, would have long since been repressed.

The foyer of my former home was what anyone could describe as humble yet immaculate. Everything was made of dark cherry wood, including the enormous staircase that stood on the far wall. The entire first floor (and basement) of the house was dedicated to the funeral parlor, but the second floor was where my family had lived for generations.

As I looked from room to room on my way to the skinny door in the far corner, I could recall countless times I'd been forced to stand, dressed in a suit, consoling grieving aunts, sisters, mothers, and widows as they laid to rest their loved ones. It was a painful, dirty feeling that not even my relentless sarcasm could brush aside.

All while giving it too much thought, I opened the door and took the first step onto the staircase that would lead me downstairs, and though the entire area was well-lit, my heart began to race and perspiration appeared on the palms of my hands. "Dad?" I asked, trying not to let my voice shake.

"Down here," he called back in as monotone of a voice as I'd ever heard him speak in before. I wasn't sure if it was a common trait of funeral directors, but my father wasn't one to show emotion. He was as much of a brick wall as my mother was a gushing waterfall.

The room at the bottom of the stairs was not what anyone would expect from the basement of an old house built in the 1930s; it had a sterile look and feel to it, as if doctors would be coming in to perform surgeries at any moment. The lights were bright and fluorescent. The floor was a bright white and had been recently mopped. The walls were lined with cabinets that were filled with various kinds of chemicals and embalming fluids while two sleek, metal operating tables occupied the center of the room. One of the tables was occupied, and my father stood over the corpse, preparing it to be embalmed.

"Hi," I said, not taking another step into the room, my hand planted firmly on the banister.

He looked up from the body to acknowledge me, and I realized he looked exhausted. I hadn't seen him for a few weeks, but I could only assume work had been running him ragged. He had given Arthur time off to visit his family in San Diego, and I could only assume he was having trouble running the entire parlor by himself. If only he had a son willing to pick up the slack...

"Do you remember Mr. Baxter from the ice cream shop down the street?" he asked, gesturing toward the nearly-nude body lying between the two of us. "He died two days ago from a heart attack. He was closing down the shop when all of a sudden..." He trailed off as if in deep thought, letting the rest of the story tell itself.

"So, Mom and I are going to be heading up north pretty soon. She said you wanted to talk to me. Did you just want to talk to me about Mr. Baxter?" I asked apprehensively. I didn't want to come off as uncaring, but seriously, I didn't want to hear about my father preparing for burial the man that had slipped me free scoops of Superman ice cream as a child.

"No, no..." Dad said, trying to find the correct words. "We need to talk about August."

"What's there to say?" I asked.

The truth of the matter was that no one should have been blindsided by this. August was a rebellious kid, and what did rebellious kids do? They ran away from home from time to time. Of course, he'd made it further than even I would have guessed for someone at his level of social awkwardness.

"I just feel really bad about what happened between us. I was never expecting it to go this way. I was never expecting him to run off and try to abandon all of us. I'm just so ashamed." I couldn't tell if he was ashamed at August or himself. After all, he had helped cause the situation by not being there for August when he needed a father most. How was this at all shocking?

"Dad, being honest, I think August did what anyone in his position would have done. Something went wrong, really wrong, and he took off. He was scared and didn't know what to do," I argued in my brother's defense.

"But look where it got him."

"He didn't know that running off to Aberdeen was going to lead up to him falling off a bridge," I said nonchalantly. "We just have to accept it at face value and move on. We have to learn from all the mistakes."

I was surprised at how intelligent I had just sounded, but the expression on my father's face proved he wasn't buying it. He looked near tears. By this time, he had moved from behind Mr. Baxter's body and had made his way across the basement.

He looked up at me and placed his hand on my shoulder as I tried not to cringe, thinking of how only minutes ago he had been touching a dead body, albeit wearing gloves. "Just bring him home for me," he said, his voice cracking.

A cold chill ran down my spine as if a ghost had just passed through the room, and with the amount of dead bodies that had spent time there, I wouldn't have been surprised had that been the case. I could only nod my head in agreement with him as he turned and walked back to Mr. Baxter. I knew our conversation was over, but I still felt as if I should say something to close it out. The best I could come up with was, "I'll see you in a couple of days," which, knowing our relationship was a big step.

Chapter 3

The ten hour drive to Aberdeen with my mother could very well have been one of the most excruciatingly awkward events in my life, or at least one of the quietest. After we had piled ourselves into the shining black hearse and pulled onto I-5, it was as if someone had turned off my Mom's ability to speak.

At first, I made a fledgling attempt at small talk, asking her if or when she wanted to stop for lunch, to which she sheepishly replied with, "I'm not hungry." Of course she wouldn't be hungry at quarter past eight in the morning, but I had a feeling that by noon or one in the afternoon, she might have something of an appetite.

After nearly five hours without speaking, I finally convinced her to order something from a drive thru just outside of Eugene, Oregon, a little over halfway through our trip. None to my surprise, she picked at her burger and fries as I continued to drive, eating less than a third of the meal in whole.

Again, as we drove closer to Aberdeen, about an hour away from the city, I turned to my mother and asked her if she was actually alright. She replied with, "Yes, fine," and that was that. At one point, I almost decided to ask her what exactly had happened between she, my father, and brother, but I chose not to, knowing it would cause more harm than good.  
My mother was a lot like me; if she didn't want to talk about something, trying to force her was the last thing you wanted to do.

I wasn't sure whether or not to take her lack of speaking as anger towards me or concern for August. In actuality, it was likely a bit of both, and I quickly decided to let her come around on her own. My attempts at forcing her to speak seemed to only be prolonging her silence, and I quickly realized as we grew closer and closer to our destination, she seemed to be growing even more apprehensive.

And though I felt a wave of apprehension come over me as well, as we parked at Gray's Harbor Hospital, I also felt a sense of relief that the worst car ride I had ever experienced had now come to an end. Of course, the car ride home could still take the award.

I waited patiently as my mother composed herself, wiped away any fresh tears, and courageously stepped out of the passenger side door, holding her hand against the frame of the car so as to keep herself steady. She looked to me with sorrowful eyes as I too exited the hearse and said in a sincere tone, "I'll have some paperwork to fill out before they'll let us take August home. Will you come in with me and wait?"

"Of course," I answered, knowing that while I would prefer to wait in the car, I didn't know how long it would take her to fill out this paperwork. It also dawned on me that it would be better for everyone if I was present when she and August were finally reunited. August would likely be less than enthused while my mother would be expressing multiple emotions-- joy, anger, and concern-- all at once. It could easily become an ugly scene.

A nurse at the front counter directed Mom to a place where she could sit to fill out the countless pages of paperwork that would release August into our custody. As she sat and began the lengthy "read and sign" process, I saw my brother waiting for us across the room in an oversized red comfy-chair that looked as if it didn't belong in a hospital waiting room.

"Well, hi," I said as I made my way to him and sat down casually; the chair was big enough for the both of us. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, though I had expected him for some reason to be clad in a hospital gown.

He looked over at me with his blue eyes and shaggy brown hair and I realized how much we were alike in that moment. I had never thought much of it before, but we looked more like twins than brothers separated by seven years. His face was calm yet nervous, which told me he was about as afraid to face Mom as she was to face him.

"Is she mad?" he asked, nodding towards the woman silently reading through release forms across the room.

"You know, being honest, I haven't seen her angry the entire time you've been gone. I think she's been worried and a little embarrassed about what happened between you guys, but I wouldn't say she's mad," I answered, trying to soften the blow as much as possible. Of course she was probably mad, but she was more overcome with a sense of relief that her son was alive and well (exceptionally well, to be honest). "You look good," I added. The only physical trace of the fall that I could see on my brother was what looked to be a pretty large gash on the right side of his forehead, now stitched closed and on its way to healing.

"Thanks, I guess," he said sheepishly, giving me a strange stare.

"For someone who fell off a bridge, I mean."

"I just got a few bumps and bruises, maybe a concussion. I hit my head pretty hard," he said, pointing to the stitched contusion and smiling. "But, I know who the President is, and I know my name and my birthday, and how many fingers, so I'm pretty sure I haven't suffered any horrible brain damage or anything like that."

I nodded slowly, taking in his words. He was lucky he hadn't been killed, falling into a river while drunk. He was lucky his friend had been there to pull him out of the water. "It could have been a lot worse."

"Yeah, I guess so," he said, not completely convinced. The distant stare from him as he spoke brought up a nagging idea in the back of my mind; what if August had meant to die on the bridge that night? Could he have been trying to kill himself?

The two of us chitchatted for a few more minutes and, after realizing that the paperwork was going to take Mom a little while longer, August convinced me to take a walk with him around the hospital campus. He said he'd grown fond of the place after spending a couple of days there. Apparently, he'd fallen from the bridge on Monday and his lack of identification had made it difficult for the doctors and police to notify our family of his whereabouts.

As we walked through an outdoor courtyard, a thought arose in my mind. "So, you said you remember everything, no memory loss. Why didn't you just tell the police who your parents were and how to get in contact with them?" I asked.

August laughed, picking a flower and playing with it in his hands. "I ran away, remember? I didn't want to be found."

It made sense and was exactly something my brother would do. If he didn't want to give up his personal information, then it would be easy for him to pretend like he didn't know it. "Why Aberdeen?" I asked.

"Is this Twenty Questions?"

I slapped my hand onto his shoulder, worrying I might hit a bruise or cut I couldn't see, but he seemed fine. "You ran away and have been missing for two months; what do you expect?"

"A parade," he joked.

"No," I stated. "People who are kidnapped get parades, and kids who run away get grounded for a year. You should have faked your own abduction if you wanted a parade waiting for you in Anderson."

He stopped walking and stared at his feet for a moment, not looking at me as he spoke. "I wasn't planning on going back there. Ever."

August was being open with me, something I had hardly seen before and still wasn't used to. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if his time in Aberdeen had somehow peeled back a few of his layers. He was normally secretive and overly quiet, but here, now, he was ready to talk, ready to tell me things he never would have before running away. In a way, it angered me it took a life-altering event like this to bring him out of his shell to a point where he felt like he could trust me.

"Are we that bad?" I asked. I looked to him for reassurance, but he didn't answer the question. It wasn't abnormal for teenagers to hate their families, but this felt a little on the extreme. "We're that bad," I added with a scoff.

"It's not you," August stated firmly. "I left because of the fight I had with Mom and Dad. I knew they weren't the most accepting or understanding people in the world, but it was Three Mile Island in our house that night. You have no idea how bad it was."

I knew our parents and had experienced firsthand how they could turn something completely trivial and make it about them. When I had admitted I had no plans of following in my father's funeral director footsteps, it was made clear that I was inconveniencing them and the plans they had made for our family. There was little or no concern for what I wanted to make of my own life. I could see how August would feel trapped in a meaningful conversation that wouldn't end in our parent's favor.

But still, despite the validity behind them, August's actions were rash and ill-thought out.

"So, fleeing across state lines seemed like your best option?" I asked, trying not to sound too authoritative, but still meaning to get a point across.

"If they would have had it their way, everything would have just gone back to normal after that fight. They would have wanted to pretend nothing had happened at all. To me, the worst crime is faking it, and I just couldn't do that anymore. Besides, you ran away," he pointed out matter-of-factly.

I laughed, putting my arm around him and leading him forward through the courtyard. "No, I moved out. I packed my bags and moved into a tiny apartment across town. You, however, threw some crap into a backpack and fled the state. How did you do it, by the way?"

While I was trying to stay somewhat stern, my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I thought that since we had found him, safe and sound, I could at least be a little intrigued by his story.

He hesitated, knowing I wouldn't like the answer. "I hitchhiked."

I couldn't believe it, yet at the same time, it was completely believable. August was just naïve enough to hitch a ride more than five hundred miles with a complete stranger. "That's one detail I'd leave out of my story to Mom and Dad," I advised.

The two of us walked the courtyard for several more minutes, exchanging offhanded comments and advice to each other about dealing with the impending apocalypse that would be confronting our parents. As much as I longed to be left out of the reunion, I was a part of it and would never actually leave August to face them on his own. For all intents and purposes, we were in this together, and I would help him as best I could.

As we made our way back towards the receptionist's desk where our mother would be completing the release paperwork, I turned to ask August one final question out of Mom's earshot. "So, what did you do while you were here?"

All joking left his voice as he answered the question: "I was happy."  
I couldn't have been sure, but it seemed as if he was fighting back tears.

Before I could say anything to console him, our mother appeared in front of us, a little flustered and out of breath. I mentally cringed, wishing I had been able to say one last thing to August.

She focused her speaking on me, as I assumed she was still a little too nervous to speak directly to August. "Where have you been?" she asked, almost angry, but more frustrated than anything.

"I was just—"

She cut me off before I could explain, energetically brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. She'd been crying again. She shook her head and declared, "I've been looking all over for you. Everything's set. We can leave now."

I nodded and looked over my shoulder at August who returned my bewildered look with a slight shrug and roll of his eyes. As I turned back to face our mother, she had already turned and was making her way towards the exit of the hospital. It shocked me that she had failed to even acknowledge August's presence. I had expected an emotional hug and an "I was so worried about you!" But no, nothing.

August's face was unharmed by the cold reunion, but I could tell it bothered him, deep down. As we followed our mother through the automatic doors, I leaned my head towards his ear and whispered, "It should be an interesting ride home."

Chapter 4

We had been at Grays Harbor Hospital for more than an hour, and after the ten hour drive to Aberdeen, I just wasn't feeling up to making another ten hour drive back to Anderson. Our only other option was to find a decently priced hotel and spend the night, waking up bright and early to make the trip home.

I parked the hearse as far from the Peninsula Inn as I could, hoping not to be questioned by the motel manager and praying that the exterior design of the building didn't speak volumes for what we would find inside. As the three of us entered the lobby, my fears were confirmed, the first thing I noticed being the 1950s throwback décor. Whether it had been on purpose or not, the blonde wood, sunburst wall clock, and kitsch pattern furniture screamed "time-warp" and made me more than a little uncomfortable.

August, however, lazily threw himself into one of the three off-white Copenhagen chairs that lined the far wall, picking up an Aberdeen, Washington brochure that read "Come as you are!" on the front flap in bold, blue letters. He began to leaf through it as Mom spoke with the manager.

"We need two rooms for the night, please," she said somewhat sheepishly to the bearded manager whose nametag read Marion. She was a tired, petite woman who looked extremely out of place, especially next to the hulking, bearded frame of Marion the manager.

"Yes, ma'am," he said in a gruff tone. His voice fit him perfectly, but his level of manners was surprising, if not stereotypically, uncharacteristic of someone who smelled of cigars and bear and who worked the late shift at a somewhat dumpy rural Washington motel.

I sat down in the chair next to August's and waited for Mom to finish the transaction. She paid Marion for the rooms, and he handed her two keys, smiling broadly to reveal jagged teeth that were in dire need of brushing. August stifled a laugh, successfully turning it into a cough, and held up his brochure for me to read the title again. I shook my head at him, hoping that neither Marion nor our mother would catch on to what he was implying. While August was funny at times, I felt he was hardly in the position to joke around.

Mom turned towards us and handed me our room key as I stood from my chair. "You're in room 48," she said. "I've got room 50. We'll be right across the hall from each other, so if you need anything—" she began, most likely realizing I was a grown man before she could finish her thought. Sometimes it was hard for her to accept that fact I had grown and could take care of myself.

The three of us entered the main hallway of the hotel and mounted the stairs that would lead us to our adjacent rooms, August and I hanging back as Mom seemed on a mission to reach her destination at record speeds. Once she reached the door marked 50, she inserted her key, opened the door, and turned to face us.

"I'll be resting. Knock if you need anything," she instructed. As she stared at me, waiting for a response, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes and wondered if they had developed over the course of our very long day or if they had developed slowly over time, starting even before August had decided Anderson, California was not the place he wanted to spend the rest of his life.

"We should grab something for dinner soon. I saw an Italian restaurant down the street," I said, knowing well that she needed to eat something more solid than the burger and fries she had picked at on our way to Aberdeen.

She hesitated for a moment as if taking in my words and carefully dissecting them before forming a response. "I'm not feeling hungry. You should go without me, but don't stay out too late. I want to get an early start tomorrow and get home as soon as we can."

At least we agreed on something.

I nodded, noticing she seemed more worn out than only moments before. Seconds later, she turned away from both August and I, retreating into her room and slowly closing the door in my face. So as to not be rude, she left it open only a fraction of an inch in order to let me know I could follow her in if I really wanted to.

Respecting her privacy and knowing she needed rest, I grabbed the door handle and pulled it closed, hearing the lock latch seconds later.

As I turned to unlock our room, I saw August standing next to the door, not really focusing on anything and possibly transforming back into his introverted self, more and more by the second.

I ruffled his hair gently and placed my hand on his shoulder, turning him towards the now open room door. "I know she hasn't really spoken to you yet, but I think you're just going to have to give her some time and space," I said, hoping he would understand.

"I'm not too worried about that," he stated quietly.

"I have a feeling you are, but I just don't want you to think too much of it. She's been an emotional wreck the whole day. She's been through a lot—we all have, but especially her. She barely even said a word to me the whole drive here."

August glanced up at me as if the fact that Mom had barely spoken to me was more jarring than she not speaking to him. "You should fix things with her," he said.

"You should fix things with her," I responded.

We walked into our room, which was as eccentrically decorated as the rest of the motel, and I flung myself onto one of the turquoise beds and rubbed my face against my palms. I was exhausted. I noticed a jabbing pain in my hip and quickly pulled the hearse keys out of my pocket and tossed them onto the kidney-shaped table that sat between the two beds. Another sunburst wall clock told me it was only ten minutes past eight.

August stood, peering through the window from behind the dusty curtains.

"Was it all worth it?" I asked.

"Do you want the truth or what I'm supposed to tell you?" he asked in the more confident voice I hadn't yet gotten used to.

"The truth."

"I told you I was happy here, and I was," he began. "But there was always some little part of me that was worried about everyone back home. I knew Mom and Dad didn't want me around, but I still worried some, you know?"

His words were heavy, and I had never heard August speak in such a mature way. I wasn't sure whether to be proud of the fact he was growing up or sad that he had seemingly grown up so fast. Spending two months roaming the west coast would do that to you, I suppose.

"They didn't not want you around," I argued, trying to play devil's advocate in some form. For all I knew, that very well could have been the case, but what I knew for sure was that when August had fled, they sure wanted him back. Maybe they just couldn't handle being abandoned by both their sons.

He scoffed at me. "You didn't hear some of the things they said. I remember the fight the three of you had when you moved out, and this was exponentially worse. It was atomic. It put Hiroshima and Nagasaki to shame."

"Do you want to talk about the fight?" I asked. Mom and Dad had refused to tell me anything about it other than the fact that it had been pretty bad. I was hoping my little brother would open up a little and give me at least some insight into why all of this had happened.

"Not yet," he said, still peering through the window into the parking lot. "What it all boils down to is that wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are. I couldn't be someone I'm not for them."

I knew the kind of person August was, and I knew he had never meant any harm by fleeing town, but at the same time, how could he not have expected the repercussions? In his emotionally beaten eyes, he was doing everyone a favor by leaving, not making our lives exponentially more complicated than they had been before. I wondered if he realized this now.

"What are you looking at?" I asked as he pulled the curtain back and leaned against the wall, never taking his eyes off the parking lot below.

"It's Mom," he said. "She's walking towards the hearse."

I stood behind August and peered through the window with him, watching our mother. Below, we saw her exiting the motel lobby and making her way back to the hearse to retrieve her overnight bag. She moved slowly and seemed to stagger, almost as if drunk or in a fugue state of some kind. I watched her as she walked through the nearly empty lot, only able to compare her to a zombie, the living dead wandering aimlessly through a deserted world.

"You think she'll be okay?" August asked, the weight of his actions seemingly pressing on his shoulders as he stepped away from the window and sat on the edge of his bed, which was the same dirty turquoise color as mine.

I didn't have an answer for him.

Chapter 5

As the two of us made our way down Market Street in search of the nearest restaurant, I noticed my feet kicking up obscene amounts of dust on the road's edge in the dim light radiating from the town's street lamps. August, however, seemed not to disturb the dirt lining the edge of the road at all. For some reason I took this as a sign that he was more of a native in Aberdeen than I was.

It bothered me that, for a brief moment, I considered if this was where he actually belonged. Maybe Mom and I were dragging him back to a place he didn't fit into when what he really needed was to be around people who liked and understood him. Just because someone is born somewhere, doesn't mean that's where they're supposed to be.

Who was I kidding? He was seventeen and needed to be with his family.

"Where are we eating?" I asked nonchalantly. We looked to be in a mostly residential area, but the glow coming from over the hill ahead of us told me more than a couple fast food joints would soon make themselves known.

August shrugged, bending over to pick up a small rock on the side of the road. He studied it momentarily before hurling it forward. The stone connected with a street sign in the distance, causing a loud clang that could undoubtedly be heard from streets over. "I don't really care as long as I get something without meat," he said as we approached what I could only guess to be the sign he had just hit with the rock. As he marched a few steps ahead of me, I realized he was wearing a faded gray backpack. I couldn't be sure how long he had been wearing the pack, but I was almost positive he hadn't had it on when we left the hospital. Where had it come from?

"You're a vegetarian?" I asked, looking at my brother. He simply nodded, giving me a confused stare that told me this was information I should have already known. "Since when?"

He picked up another rock and seemed to weigh it in the palm of his hand, not throwing it this time. "Well, since I became old enough to discover that it's disgusting to raise animals simply for the purpose of slaughtering and eating them, especially when they're raised in conditions that make said slaughter and eating a relief from the torturous lives they once lived."

I was obviously shocked by his quick answer and passion on the subject. I was at a loss for intelligent words. Again, this was a side of August I had never encountered before, a side that had opinions and cared about things. "Do you eat fish?" I asked blandly, trying to keep the conversation going as long as possible.

He laughed and shook his head at me. "It's okay to eat fish, because they don't have any feelings."

While I knew his tone was sarcastic and that he was probably disappointed in me for not having known he'd been vegetarian since, well, since I didn't know when, I also knew the two of us were connecting on a level we never had before. We were joking with each other and having a random conversation without awkward pauses and silences that spoke volumes about how neither of us really wanted to be talking to the other. As we walked down Market Street towards the glowing lights of the fast food restaurants, August and I were truly acting as brothers.

A few minutes later, we compromised on eating at a small pizza place called Cope's where, after making sure August was indeed vegetarian and not vegan, I ordered a cheese pizza for us to split. The waitress, a girl in her early twenties, brought the pizza along with our drinks, giving me a strange look as she placed them on the table in front of me.

I glanced down at my t-shirt and checked to make sure the waitress wasn't in earshot. "Do I look like that much of a tourist or outsider or whatever?" I asked.

August took a bite of his pizza and spoke with his mouth full, something he'd done since we were both little kids. "I don't think so. What did she do? I didn't really notice."

"She just looked at me like I'm a lunatic or something. I thought it might be the way I'm dressed. Maybe I don't look like I belong in the wonderful little town of Aberdeen, Washington."

"Well, you're not wearing flannel," August pointed out. "That could be the problem."

I scoffed at him. "Neither are you, and she didn't even give you a second glance. I, however, got the complete third degree."

We continued eating our pizza in silence for the next couple of minutes, but it soon occurred to me that if the silence continued, we might lose whatever connection we had gained throughout the earlier part of the evening. Before August had run away to Washington, he and I had partaken in few enough meaningful conversations to count on one hand. But now, as we were preparing to head home, we seemed to be bonding with one another, an event I had surprisingly become fond of and didn't want to lose.

I tried to think of a conversation starter as the seconds ticked away on the clock that hung on the wall opposite me. Each second that went by meant that I was one second closer to reverting to my old relationship with August. "So what's going on between you and Mom?" I blurted, not thinking too much about whether or not it was a good idea to bring it up.

"Nothing; we just got into a fight and I took off," August lied.

I brought my hands to my face in a praying position as if contemplating his words. "You're trying to tell me it was just a fight?" I asked. "There was no real reason behind it? The three of you just decided it was a good time to start screaming at each other?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" he asked. Part of me wondered how long he was going to try to play this off with me.

"You said yourself that it was like Three Mile Island. Those kinds of meltdowns don't just happen for no apparent reason. I'm guessing you did something or told them something they didn't want to hear."

August didn't answer and made every attempt not to make eye contact with me. As I watched him, his eyes darted around the room, from table, to floor, to jukebox, to waitress. Whatever had happened had scarred him to a point of refusing to speak about it. And if neither he nor Mom would fess up to what happened, then it was pretty obvious I was going to remain in the dark until both of them decided to grow up.

"Fine," I stated dryly. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

He laughed, wadding his napkin into a ball and throwing at my face. "You're reverse psychology really isn't going to work on me. It didn't work when we were kids; it won't work now."

"I know, but I'm your older brother; it's my job to be kind of mean to you sometimes."

"Isn't it sad, though?" he asked me, his face becoming more serious than before.

"Isn't what sad?" I asked, perplexed.

August paused momentarily, contemplating whether or not to continue his thoughts. Of course, he had to finish, because he had already asked the question. There was no way I was letting him out of telling me what he found sad.

"It's sad that we've been brothers for almost eighteen years and we've never really acted like brothers. I mean, it took me running away and falling off a bridge for us to get to this point in our relationship. Doesn't that seem a little pathetic?"

Of course he was right, but I wanted to play it off as much as I could. I knew I had been a pretty horrible big brother over the years, mostly concerned with things that only affected me directly, but now it felt as if things had changed. In a completely morbid way, I thought that August falling off that bridge might have been the best thing to happen to either of us in a long time.

"Yeah, it's really pathetic," I said. "But, maybe this is where things change for us."

August's brow furrowed as if he were deeply contemplating my words. "Yeah, maybe," he said, not looking at me.

I started to reply, but the waitress interrupted our conversation, walking up to the table and giving me a concerned look. "Is everything alright?" she asked me. Her back was to August who covered his mouth, trying to stifle his laughter. The waitress's presence seemed to have snapped him out of whatever deep thought process he had been in momentarily.

"Everything's fine, why?" I asked, not sure why she seemed so concerned.

She paused, beginning to gesture towards the table for reasons unbeknownst to me, but she stopped herself and let out a small, frustrated sigh. "No reason, darlin'," she said. "Are you ready for your check?"

I told her we were, and she walked away from the table again. Once she was gone, August removed his hand from over his mouth and let out a roar of laughter that left him with his knees curled to his stomach as he fell onto his side in the booth seat across from me. His infectious laughter was impossible not to catch, and I found myself laughing along with him, only to a smaller degree and not completely sure what we were actually laughing at.

The waitress, whose nametag revealed her name to be Bette, walked past the table with a tray of food in her hand, laying our check next to my hand without so much as another word to either of us. As I pulled my wallet from my jeans pocket, I realized she had forgotten to charge us for one of our drinks.

"I wouldn't worry about it," August stated, standing up from the table and yawning. The clock on the wall behind him revealed it was nearly midnight. I hadn't realized we'd been at the pizza place so long.

I was about to protest my brother's words, but as he made his way towards the door, I decided it was best to just go along. However, I left enough cash on the table to cover the missed drink and still provide Bette with a small tip, even if her service was a little out of the ordinary.

Rushing out the door, I saw August walking down Market Street, about thirty yards ahead of me. I jogged to catch up with him, realizing as we reached the edge of the parking lot that he was walking south. Our motel was about a mile or two north of Cope's Pizza.

"Where are you going?" I asked, stopping and grabbing him by the arm. I pointed north, towards the dark suburban end of the street from which we had originally come. "Motel's that way."

August paused, nodding his head over his right shoulder towards town. "Would you believe me if I told you I know a shortcut?" I shook my head 'no' at him, not saying a word as he continued to speak. "So, there's this party tonight..."

"August, no!" I stated, cutting him off.

"But it's perfect!" he exclaimed. "It's my last night in Aberdeen! I'll never be in this town again!" Though I was essentially denying him what he wanted, his tone was excited, and his eyes were full of life. August wasn't done fighting.

"No, we can't."

"But it'll be like a going away party! And I want you to come with me! You can meet the friends I made while I was here!"

"Mom will freak out if we don't come back to the motel tonight."

"She'll never know," he pleaded. He grabbed my arm like a little kid begging for his parents to buy him an expensive toy in a department store. I'd seen August use this maneuver on our mother before, when we were both much younger. Needless to say, he usually got what he wanted.

"August..." I sighed.

He looked at me with a bambi-esque expression, all watery-eyed and innocent-looking. He knew he could break me, and truth be told, I was honored that he wanted me to meet the friends he'd made while on the run from his family. As the night had gone by, I'd actually begun to feel like one of those friends who had seemingly fixed August, rather than a family member who had been a part of the original problem.

Chapter 6

I followed August's lead as he walked south on Market Street in the dark. I had no idea where we were going or what this party was going to be like, but I found myself both interested and apprehensive about what I would soon be experiencing.

As August adjusted the backpack he carried, I heard a distinct clanking noise inside. I wanted to give my brother the benefit of the doubt, but a surge of anger moved through me as I heard the distinct sound yet again.

"What's in the bag?" I asked, stopping him mid-step by grabbing his forearm. "Is it alcohol?"

"No! It's not alcohol. I swear," August protested, jerking his arm away more defensively than I would have expected. "I learned my lesson about drinking a couple of days ago," he added, somewhat off-handedly.

I eyed him skeptically and pointed to the bag. I knew better than to try and grab it, but I wanted to know what he was carrying around in it. "Then what's inside?"

"You'll see soon enough," was his only response, and he turned to continue walking. As we came to a curve in the road and a sign that informed us we were making our way onto Young Street, I could hear what sounded like running water in the distance.

"August, I need some answers!" I protested as we kept walking. "Where is this party? What am I getting myself into?"

My brother turned back to me again with an annoyed yet oddly superior look on his face. "There is no party," he sighed, sounding almost defeated. I noticed as he turned away from me, we were now standing at the base of a rickety-looking, wooden bridge. However, I quickly realized it wasn't just any bridge; it was the Young Street Bridge. It was the bridge August had fallen off of a couple of nights before.

I took a minute to observe the scene before me. The light was minimal, provided only by three dim streetlamps that were spaced out across the bridge that overstretched the Wishkah River. It was by no means an attractive or eye-catching bridge, but at the same time, it was completely mesmerizing.

I found myself walking to the edge of the bridge, despite my slight fear of heights, and looking over to see exactly how far the drop was. About thirty feet below me, the Wishkah River flowed surprisingly smooth, with large, broken beams of wood protruding out of it, reaching up to the sky.

"How did you miss these planks of wood when you fell?" I asked, turning my head to see that August had vanished. For a brief moment, I panicked, fearing he had taken the opportunity to flee, yet again. "August?"

To my left, I could hear rustling in the grass and shrubs that led down to the riverbank.

As I went against my better judgment and climbed to the bottom of the ravine, I took a second to glance up at the underbelly of the bridge; it was nothing special, old wood and metal twisted together to support the structure spanning across the river, but it was also a sight I'd never seen before in my life.

As I reached the bottom, I could hear a strange noise coming from not too far away, yet I could not make out what it was. I took my steps cautiously, thinking back to all the times August had creatively scared me. Though he was older now, he was also better at finding small spaces to hide in and jump out of at the exact right moment.

"Hello?" I called stupidly as another noise caught my attention. I was scared to death, but eager to discover the origin of the sound at the same time, along with hopefully finding August. I heard the sound again, a subtle pshhhhhh noise that repeated itself three more times. I immediately pictured myself in a horror movie, dangerously close to stumbling upon a deranged ax-murderer, but completely unable to turn back and save myself.

I raised my nose upward, breathing in the harsh scent that filled the air around me. It was strong, thick, and dizzying.

Suddenly, a flashlight beam shined in my face, and I found myself blinded as my brother's voice rang out in an echo beneath the bridge. "Boo!"

I stumbled backwards in fear, tripping over my own feet and falling onto a particularly soft, muddy portion of the riverbank. As I pulled myself to my feet again, the seat of my pants sticking to me, I asked angrily, "What are you doing down here?"

August stifled laughter and grabbed my shoulder to help steady me as I nearly fell again. "Don't get mad," he said apprehensively. I could tell something was up.

I held back my anger as best I could, but frustration had to be apparent on my face. "What's going on August? You're acting all weird and cryptic. I don't like it. First you say we're going to a party, and then there is no party. Now we end up under the bridge you fell off of. This is strange and I'm not a fan. Just tell me what's going on."

The glow of the flashlight in his hand illuminated his own face, which showed only an expression of indifference. "Sorry," he mumbled, as if he'd not even realized he'd done anything wrong.

"It's alright," I said. I wasn't sure why I had said this to him. I was edging towards furious, and the fact that he had dragged me here in the first place made everything definitely not alright. "What are you doing down here?"

August paused briefly as if choosing his words carefully. His face was proud yet hesitant as he held up a metal can of spray paint and shook it as if about to begin painting. "I'm leaving my mark on Aberdeen before I'm gone forever," he said in the tone of a fledgling philosopher on the verge of explaining the mysteries of the universe.

I was in disbelief as I saw the can in August's hand and realized it must have been what he had been carrying in his backpack, along with the flashlight. I found myself wondering if he would actually graffiti public property. Of course, the bridge we were under was well-known for having once been a popular hangout for Kurt Cobain and had been tagged hundreds, if not thousands of times by fans and foes alike.

"You're serious?" I asked him.

"Oh yeah, serious as a heart attack," he said, tossing the can towards me. I instinctively caught it, my eyes drawn to three similar cans that sat, propped against several large rocks making up the bank of the Wishkah. "Or as serious as falling off a bridge, I guess... I was just getting ready to start, if you wanted to help out."

I was obviously opposed to the idea, yet I didn't turn him down, instead asking, "What were you planning on leaving as your mark down here anyway?" I was curious, of course, and there was something oddly exhilarating about the chance we might be about to take.

August sighed, gathering up the cans and leading me down the incline and fully underneath the bridge. The way the bridge sat against the land left little room to fully stand below it, though someone could if they tried hard enough. He pointed to a concrete support beam that rested against the dirt and grass directly below the street. "Come as you are," he stated.

"Come as you are?" I asked. "As in the Nirvana song?"

"Not only as in the song, but as in the slogan of this entire town. I've kind of picked it up as my own catchphrase as well. It's fitting, I think. I mean, who doesn't it apply to, really? Who can really say that they 'come as they are' in this world?"

"How very poetic of you," I said sarcastically, turning away as if to leave. I had no intentions of going anywhere.

I sat down, making myself comfortable in the raw dirt that lined the ground under the bridge. Looking up, I could see layer upon layer of graffiti covering the infrastructure of the bridge. While a part of me was completely opposed to the idea of vandalizing public property, another part of me thought that it was a really great idea for August to leave his mark on the town before being carted back to Anderson. At least this way he would have something to tell people about, other than falling off a bridge and barely having a scratch to prove it.

As I sat there, contemplating August's idea, he sat down next to me in the dirt. He looked at me as if to ask "Well?" and my phone vibrated in my pocket. I knew it had to be Mom trying to find out where we were and what was going on.

I read the message and let out a deep sigh. "Mom's trying to find us. I think she figured out we never made it back from dinner. We should probably get back to the motel before she has a coronary," I stated, noticing a twinge of sadness in my own voice. Truth be told, had she not been trying to get ahold of me, I would have likely given in to August's whim as soon as he explained the idea to me.

"What's another hour?" he asked, standing up and smiling down at me. I knew he was about to use his powers of persuasion on me again, and I knew it was likely to work, just like last time. He'd been able to persuade me to attend an imaginary party, why not this?

Before I could even process what I was doing, I grabbed a can of spray paint from the ground and made my way up to the support beam of the bridge, shaking the can as I climbed. August smiled, following me and grabbing a can for himself. As I held my arm up to mask my nose and mouth from the flying paint in the confined area, I said, "I can't believe we're doing this right now."

"Vandalism," August stated, continuing to work on his masterpiece. I was surprised at how well it was coming together. August was creative, yes, but this reminded me of something done by a professional artist, not a runaway kid with a few cans of spray paint. "Beautiful as a rock in a cop's face."

I contemplated it momentarily, thinking of how we were breaking the law. I had my questionable moments, but this was not like me at all. However, as I stared at how the blues, reds, yellows, and blacks were mixing together to create this beautiful mural, I couldn't help but want to be a part of it. "Two conditions," I stated firmly. August stared at me, waiting for me to lay down the rules. "Rule one is that we do not mention this to Mom, like ever. She would kill us both in a second."

"And?" he asked.

"Rule two is that when we get back, you actually talk to her."

"Rule one, yes. Rule two, maybe," August said, turning back to continue his work of art. He knew his words were not what I wanted to hear. Deciding not to fall for his brotherly charms, I shook my head and started to walk out from under the bridge, using my hands to steady myself as I climbed back up to the main road. "Wait!" he shouted after me, dropping his can of paint.

"Are you going to talk to her? The two of you haven't spoken since we picked you up today. I understand that this is a tough situation, but you have to be willing to compromise," I said. "I love you, but you are a selfish little punk sometimes, and you killed her when you ran off. You killed all of us."

August was speechless, if only for a moment. His eyes were wide, as if no one had bothered to inform him that what he had done was wrong.

"I don't care if I have to tie both of you down and make you talk to each other, you will have an honest conversation with her when we get back to the motel. You're not waiting until the drive home in the morning. You're not waiting until we get back to California. You're doing it tonight. Something's gotta change here, and it starts with you."

I was shaking, furious, as my younger brother stared at me in disbelief. The last thing he had been expecting was for me to call him out on his lies, games, and bullshit all together. He'd gone into this situation playing the card of 'victim,' but the truth was that we had all been victims since the day he left.

"You're a hypocrite," he said, almost inaudibly.

"Excuse me?" I asked, outraged.

August tossed his can onto the ground in disgust and tore into me. "You've barely talked to Mom the whole time we've been here, and the two of you didn't even get into a fight! You took off and you left me to deal with everything for the past five years! How is that not worse than me avoiding my situation?" he cried.

I wasn't expecting the retaliation, but deep down, I knew he was right. August and I were similar in the sense that we both had run from what plagued us; I had just done it in a different manner. I'd moved out, and he had literally fled the state.

"It's not like that," I tried to lie.

"It's just like that! You abandoned me!"

The words stung and as I took them in, playing them over in my head, I could see in the dim light that tears were streaming down August's face. He was visibly shaking and I feared that he was close to entering another manic episode. My cheeks were wet as well, but I quickly wiped away the tears with my sleeve, trying to hide them from August. I needed to get a hold on the situation before it got out of control.

But it was too late. Before I could open my mouth to say anything, a bright spotlight shone down from the bridge above us. Someone called down, "Stay where you are! Don't move!"

"Shit," I whispered, knowing that it had to be a police officer calling down to us. As I saw two men dressed in blue uniforms descending the hill, I turned to address my brother, saying "August, let me do the talk—" But when I looked over my shoulder, I saw only an abandoned can of spray paint on the ground.

August was nowhere to be found.

Chapter 7

I found it ironic that after a heated argument with my brother about how he had felt abandoned when I moved out ended with him running off as the police caught us vandalizing the very bridge he had drunkenly fallen off of only days before.

As I sat in the back of a police car, I wondered how far he would make it before being caught, or if he would even be caught at all. On one hand, he knew the town pretty well, but on the other, so did the police.

Would he flee again? Would we be able to find him this time?

"Officers, I can explain," I pleaded from the backseat, through the metal cage-like separation that kept me, the dangerous criminal, away from the cops. "This is all a big misunderstanding."

I saw one of my arresting officers smirking in the mirror as the other began to speak. "Let me guess," he stated matter-of-factly. "You wanted to show how loyal of a fan you were to Kurt Cobain, so you came all the way out to his old stomping ground in order to leave your own mark on 'his' bridge? You're not from around here, are you kid?"

The other turned around in his seat to face me, still wearing the smirk I had seen before. "Please tell me you didn't think that was an original idea."

"I know that's what it looked like," I began, panic audible in my voice. "But, I swear there's more to the story than that."

The one who was driving scoffed at my attempt at an explanation. He seemed like the kind of guy who was more interested in giving me trouble than enforcing the law. Truth be told, he probably didn't care at all about the vandalism done to the bridge, but he probably got a lot of joy out of arresting the people who did the crime.

"Look, we've heard every story there is to tell. Hodge and I have been patrolling that area for over a year and we pick up kids tagging that bridge at least three times a week," he said with a laugh. "You're a little older than most of the teenagers we nab, but a vandal is a vandal."

I sat back in my seat, knowing explaining my situation wouldn't help me. The police were right; a vandal was a vandal, and a vandal was me. The reasons behind mine and August's spray paint catastrophe were irrelevant. All that mattered was that we had been caught, or at least I had. And because August was still a minor, I knew that if he were to be caught, his punishment would be less extreme than my own. I had no idea what the Washington laws were against petty vandalism, but the fact I was over eighteen couldn't possibly help my case.

"What about my brother?" I asked.

The police car came to a stop light, and the one who had been referred to as Hodge looked at me. "Who? What are you talking about?" His voice was genuinely confused, and he narrowed his eyes at me in anger.

The thought instantly crossed my mind that maybe they hadn't seen August under the bridge with me. It had been dark, and he had ran off before I could even tell which direction he'd gone in. Maybe, if we were lucky, he would make it back to the motel and not find himself under arrest this night. The last thing Mom needed was for both her sons to be in police custody at the same time.

I didn't answer his question.

"Look, if there's another one of you out there, tagging or even carrying the spray paint around, we'll find him and bring him in," the driver said. "We take vandalism very seriously here in Aberdeen, as I'm sure you understand."

We rode the rest of the way to the police station in silence-- a trip that took less than five minutes, as it was located just down the street from the bridge-- me focusing on the passing houses and businesses outside the window. Every pedestrian we passed I feared was August and found myself closing my eyes in apprehension as the police eyed them suspiciously. They were on the lookout as much as I was. In all, we only passed three people walking on the deserted streets, but each one I knew was August, though none of them actually was.

A few minutes later, we pulled into the police station, parked under a large awning, and Officer Hodge escorted me from the car, into the building. I hadn't been handcuffed, as both of them knew I was about as dangerous as any of the other graffiti-prone vandals they often brought in.

The interior of the police station was mostly deserted, aside from a receptionist who sat at a desk. She looked half-asleep as she skimmed the novel in front of her, the Other by Tom Tryon. Noticing we had entered the room, she quickly sat it on the desk in front of her and nodded to the officers. To me, she looked exactly like anyone named Doreen should, slightly overweight and wearing thick-rimmed glasses.

"Hello, Doreen," the officer who was not Hodge said to her as we walked past.

"Good evening, Officer Troy."

Officer Troy and I walked towards the back of the building, into what I could only assume was the town's representation of an interrogation room. Office Hodge did not join us though, but instead pulled out a set of keys and entered an office across the hall.

"Am I under arrest?" I asked curiously. This had all seemed very informal. I couldn't even remember fully if they had read me my Miranda Rights before asking me to get into the police cruiser. And then it dawned on me that they hadn't even forced me into the car; they'd asked me to get into the back seat, and I had complied.

Officer Troy smirked and shrugged his shoulders. "That really just depends, kid. Vandalism is Washington State can bring you to about three hundred dollars in fines, along with a suspended driver's license and community service time. Tell us what was going on down there. What was going through your mind? Why'd you do it?"

I looked around the room, noticing just how plainly decorated it was. There was nothing on the walls and only one light hung from the ceiling, casting a fluorescent glow throughout the small space. Officer Troy was seated at a desk while I occupied a chair across from him. I found it odd my chair was closer to the door than he was.

I thought about my story momentarily and decided to tell as much of the truth as possible without giving away that August had actually been with me under the bridge. He'd had his own run-in with the police recently, and I didn't want that fact to aid in the decision of whether or not to press charges against either of us.

"I did it for my brother," I stated carefully. "He's always been a Kurt Cobain fan, and I thought it would be a fitting tribute to my little brother's philosophy of life."

Officer Troy nodded, writing down a note on a pad of paper from the desk. I couldn't read his face, but he still seemed cold and unsympathetic. "What's your name?" he asked.

I hesitated for just a moment, but decided it was useless trying to hide this information from him. "Connor Sennett," I said, almost ashamed.

Troy's eyebrow raised momentarily, and he stood from the desk, walking towards the door. "Excuse me a moment," he said. I was confused, as his voice sounded almost pleasant. "Wait here for me." He then walked through the door and into Hodge's office across the hall. I couldn't make out what either of them were saying, but the two of them soon began sifting through paperwork on Hodge's desk, taking a second every now and then to glance up at me. After finding the paper they had been looking for, both officer's entered the room I was in.

"You're brother, August Sennett's his name?" Hodge asked, holding up what I could only guess to be the police report that had been filed after August's accident.

I answered with a simple and weary "yes."

Hodge's and Troy's eyes met each other, and Hodge nodded, setting the paperwork onto the desk and patting me on the shoulder. "Who did you come to Aberdeen with, Mr. Sennett?" His words we calm, nice, and maybe even a little bit caring. I was more than a little baffled.

"My mother," I stated. "I came with my mother. We needed to pick up my brother and—"

"I know, I know," Officer Hodge said very placidly. "Look, I'm going to get a phone for you, and I want you to call your mom to come pick you up. I'm sure she's worried about you, and I know you'll need to be heading back to California first thing in the morning."

I had no idea what was going on. Minutes before, Officer Troy had been threatening me with fines, community service, and a suspended driver's license. Now, it was as if I'd done nothing wrong. I was being asked to call a ride and leave with a clean record.

Against my better judgment, I asked a question: "What's this all about?"

Hodge took the liberty of answering. "Look, vandalism is a problem in this town, but the two of us figure that you've been through enough and that you're probably eager to get home. We can make an exception just this one time, considering the circumstances."

Moments later, a cordless phone was in my hand, and I found myself nervously calling my mother's cell phone. I knew she would be outraged at my arrest –or whatever it was- but I knew she would be angrier that I had essentially lost August. That was, if he hadn't already returned to the motel. I wanted to believe he would, but at the same time, a part of me dreaded the idea he would take the opportunity to run off yet again. And then what?

When she answered the phone, sounding as hollow and tired as ever, I briefly explained that I had been picked up by the police and that she needed to come get me. While I spoke very cautiously with her, I decided it best to leave out any mention of August, but also made sure to tell her there would be no charges pressed against me. Surprisingly, she calmly told me she was on her way and hung up the phone without any questions or protest.

She arrived less than thirty minutes later, though it felt like hours, as I waited in a chair across from the receptionist's desk, watching Doreen read her novel. Mom was dressed in the same clothes she had been wearing earlier, though I half expected her to be in her pajamas. As she walked into the building, I could see the hearse parked in the lot behind her.

"Mom..." I began, but she only shook her head, tears forming in her eyes again. "I'm sorry."

She looked over my shoulder towards Doreen and asked in a shaky voice, "Is he free to go?"

Doreen simply nodded, looking to my mother sympathetically.

Officers Hodge and Troy stopped us as they made their way into the room from their offices. "Mrs. Sennett!" Troy called to my mother as we stopped just outside the front doors. Mom turned to face the policemen, taking my hand in her own, a gesture I definitely had not been expecting.

"Ma'am," Hodge began. "I just wanted to tell you personally how sorry I am for your loss."

Though I was tired and more than ready to be back at the motel to sleep for however little time we had before we were to hit the road again, the words hit me hard, and I realized I had no idea what Officer Hodge was talking about. What had my mother lost?

Mom's hand tightened around mine as she nodded to the cop and choked out an emotional, "Thank you, officer," through her ever-growing sobs.

As confused as I was, the thought dawned on me that we still needed to find August. He was not in the hearse, waiting for us like I had expected, which meant he likely had not made it back to the motel. This fact made me even more concerned he could have taken the opportunity to hide from us so as to not be forced to return to Anderson in the morning. Chances were likely that we now had a missing teenager on our hands... again.

As the two of us walked towards the hearse, Mom turned to me, tears still streaming down her face. I could tell that she was nearing (or had already reached) a breaking point. I didn't know how much more she could take. "Tell me why," she said blatantly, shaking her head.

"Mom, I'll explain everything to you later, but right now we have to find August," I protested, putting my hands on her shoulders, trying to comfort her in what minimal way I could. I knew she wanted answers, but the fact that August was missing again had to take precedence over my own lapse in judgment, at least for the time being.

"What?" she asked, seemingly out of breath. Her face showed what I could only comprehend as a horrified mix of confusion and disgust with me.

"August; he was with me under the bridge, but he took off when the police showed up. We really need to find him! What if he tries to run away again?" I pleaded with her, begging for her to understand me, though her eyes narrowed and she began to cry more.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she cried, taking a step back, out of my reach.

"Please, listen to me," I begged. "I thought I could talk to him and convince him to try to fix things with you. Neither of you have spoken to each other since we got here, and that's not okay! The two of you need to talk this out, whatever caused the fight between you!"

The world slowed to a stop around us as my mother's face filled with horror. She covered her mouth with her hand and let out a small, animalistic sob that had to have been heard inside the police station. She pulled her hand away long enough to speak, but her face was still covered in disbelief.

"Connor, August is dead."

Chapter 8

Time continued to stand still as I took several steps away from my mother, my jaw slacking open in horror at her words. Neither she nor anything else moved as I examined the scene around me. I could see Officers Hodge and Troy making their way to the parking lot to examine what had just happened, though they too were stopped in time.

The only information that was of any importance to me was why my mother had just lied. What would make her fabricate this story of August's death from thin air? Had she really cracked and was now living in some horrible delusion where her youngest son was no longer alive?

Or was it me?

Had something happened to me on the way up there to pick up August? Had the months of searching for him fried some kind of circuit in my brain so that when the truth had finally been revealed to me, that my little brother had not survived his fall from the Young Street Bridge, I couldn't bring myself to actually accept it?

What was going on?

"Mom," I said wearily. "I need you to talk to me and explain what's happening." She was still frozen in time, tears still running down her aging face.

And then I saw the hearse, parked only feet away from me. The puzzle pieces started to fall into place, but still, I had to see for myself. I needed the proof, for some reason, I knew was locked in the back of the hearse.

As I stepped closer and closer to the enormous door, the questions kept racing through my mind: What had Dad insisted we take the hearse? What was wrong with my car?

I placed my hand on the back door handle, turning it slowly; not actually wanting the door to swing open and reveal what I should have known would be there all along.

Instantly, time picked up again, and I saw my mother emerge from around the hearse slowly, not wanting to startle me. She didn't speak, didn't try to stop me from opening the door. She only watched, knowing what had to be done.

I swung the door open and peered inside, trembling in fear as I saw the refrigerated box resting in the back of the vehicle. I'd seen them before, back in the days when I was still under my father's control and was forced to help him haul bodies from the morgue, back to the parlor. Dead bodies decay quickly and for long trips, refrigerated transport units had to be used to keep the deceased cool and preserved.

I didn't have to open it to know who was inside; a white tag had been placed on the outside of the container that read, Sennett, August R.

I turned to my mother in shock. "Why is that there?" I asked.

"Honey..." she began, but I didn't let her finish. Before I knew it, I had turned away from my mother and the approaching police officers and was running at a dead sprint down Market Street.

I didn't know why I was running or even where I was running to, but what I did know was that I needed to get away from that hearse as quickly as possible. I knew in the back of my mind, even as I got closer and closer to the Young Street Bridge, that I was running more from the truth than the situation, itself.

The facts had presented themselves to me; that was clear. August's name was on the case in the back of the hearse, which meant that more than likely, August was in that case. Could it have been possible that he had perished after falling from the bridge? How could it be? I had interacted with him almost continuously since Mom and I had arrived in Aberdeen.

It just didn't make sense.

On the other hand, as I tried to think back and recall everything that had occurred in the past ten hours, I couldn't think of one time when anyone other than me had acknowledged August's presence. Though I had thought it was only out of anger or despair, Mom hadn't spoken a word to him the entire time we had been in town. The waitress at the restaurant had only dealt with me and had treated me like an escaped asylum patient after I had spent the entire meal carrying on a conversation with my little brother.

And then it hit me. I don't know why the thought jumped into my mind, but I immediately recalled the moment August and I had been walking to dinner. I had been kicking up dust with every step, yet August's footfalls seemed not even to disturb the dirt on the road.

August really was dead. But did that make me crazy? Had I been spending time and bonding with a ghost, or had August's presence been a figment of my own imagination?

As I stepped onto the Young Street Bridge, the destination where August had apparently met his end, I raised a hand to my face, realizing I'd likely been crying the entire time I was running. My nose was running, and my head ached. My legs were sore from sprinting at full force; I felt like I could collapse on the spot.

The bridge creaked loudly and I raised my head to acknowledge my own surroundings. It wouldn't be long before my mother and most likely Officers Hodge and Troy were catching up to me. After discovering I was not at the motel, it wouldn't be difficult to figure out where I had taken off to.

Across the bridge, about fifty feet away, my heart stopped as I heard the loud creaking noise again and saw a black figure lifting himself up onto the railing. He used the streetlamp to steady himself, outstretching his other arm and leaning his head back as if to let the wind run through his hair. I wondered if this was my imagination playing tricks on me again, but the figured could have easily been my brother.

"August?" I whispered in disbelief. Just as I had accepted the fact that he was dead, here I was seeing him yet again.

I walked briskly towards the figure, hoping against reality for it to actually be August, but I realized as his head turned towards me that it couldn't be him. The young man, though about August's age, had short black hair and a distinctly different face. I could tell in the dim light from the streetlamp that he too had been crying recently.

"Who are you? How do you know that name?" He demanded in a shaky, yet booming voice.

"I'm Connor," I stated calmly, not wanting to make any sudden movements or gestures that might provoke the kid to fall. "August is—was my brother's name."

The kid didn't speak, but I could tell he was contemplating my words. As he did this, I put more puzzle pieces together and thought about who my brother had been staying with while he was in Aberdeen. I thought about the person who had pulled him from the water the night he fell and realized this was the only of August's friends I had heard anything about. "You're Ezra," I stated.

"You know me?" he asked, wobbling slightly on the rail. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos, though it seemed strange to see someone so young shrouded in so much ink. I wondered if he was even eighteen-years-old.

"No," I said honestly. "But I've heard of you."

"I was with August when he died." I knew this was true, but still, I wasn't expecting him to say it. The words took me by surprise, causing me to stutter momentarily, unable to think of an intelligent or meaningful response. This was the last person to have seen my brother alive, and I had nothing to say.

"I know," I said, my voice suddenly raspy with both fear and sadness.

"I tried to save him that night," he bawled.

"I know." My voice cracked.

"It's my fault he died!" he yelled at me. "I jumped in after him, but he hit his head and was under water for too long. When I pulled him to the shore, he wasn't breathing. We'd been drinking, and I told him not to get too close to the railing, but he didn't listen to me."

It was strange for me to hear an account of what had happened to August the night he fell from the bridge. It was terrifying, emotional, and cathartic, all at the same time. I needed to hear this, even if I didn't particularly want to. And while all the stories came to the same conclusion that August had indeed fallen and not jumped from the bridge, it was relieving to hear the same thing from someone who had actually been there.

I took a few steps toward Ezra, beginning to extend my hand towards him. My goal was for him to take it and step off the railing. However, he slapped it away, screaming, "Don't come any closer!"

I recoiled in panic, not wanting to cause any trouble, but wanting to help all the same. "Ezra, it's not your fault. You tried to save him," I pleaded.

"We were going to start a band, you know," he continued, as if I hadn't even spoken. "We were going to make enough money to get an apartment and one day a record label would sign us, and we'd be famous. We'd be able to tell the story about how we'd started off on the streets of this shit-hole city, but persevered and made it to fame."

I couldn't think of anything profound to say, so I simply said, "That sounds really cool. Maybe you'll still be in a band one day."

Ezra looked up at me, a look of disgust and anguish on his face. "I'd rather be dead than cool."

I could tell this was coming to a head. I needed to get Ezra off the railing before anything bad happened. He was just as likely to slip and fall as he was to throw himself over the edge. I could hear sirens in the distance, which told me the police and my mother had checked the motel and realized I wasn't there. It was likely they were on their way to the bridge.

"Ezra, step down off the railing. We can talk about it. I want to hear about your time with August while he was here," I said softly.

"There's only one way off this railing for me," he stated, letting go of the streetlamp with his left hand and outstretching both arms. He leaned his head back again and whispered to me, "I should have saved him."

Before I could even reach out to him or protest, Ezra leaned forward and disappeared into the darkness below.

Chapter 9

Without thinking, I kicked off my shoes as quickly as I could, not even bothering to remove my cell phone or wallet from my pants pockets, and pulled myself onto the railing Ezra had just plummeted from. Though the water below was nearly black in the dark, I could make out ripples telling me approximately where he had hit. If I was lucky, he had missed the protruding wooden planks sticking out of the river. If I was lucky, I might be able to do the same.

Hesitating for only a moment, I tried to triangulate where I would hit the water, and leaned forward into a diving position.

As I flew through the air, I felt a momentary sense of calm that was shattered only by the cold and painful splash I made as I entered the Wishkah River. It was freezing, and my body wanted nothing more than to tense up and stop functioning, but I knew I had to find Ezra. Looking around in the dark, my breath making steam in the air, I realized it would be nearly impossible to see him.

I took as deep of a breath as I could and plunged my head below the surface of the water, opening my eyes and trying to make out any sign of a body in the area, but there was nothing but black. It was as if I was floating through space, unable to see, hear, or breathe in its dark and murky vacuum.

I came to the surface, pulling painful air into my lungs, kicking my legs and arms in an attempt to stay afloat. From above, the water looked calm and placid, but once floating in it, I felt as if I was being beaten from every direction.

"Ezra!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, hoping he might be able to call back to me. With any luck, he was conscious and could hear my calls. Yet, as I waited momentarily, I heard no response.

I grabbed one of the wooden posts and held on with all my strength so as to not be pulled further downstream, but knew if Ezra was unconscious; it wouldn't be long before his body was washed away from me. I knew that, even if he had drowned in these past few moments, I still had to find him and bring him to shore.

He had done the same for my brother.

And that's when I felt it. It was subtle, at best, but I knew as I clung to the wooden post, shivering and trying to spot any sign of life, something had bumped against my leg. Seconds later, I felt the same sensation again and prayed it was Ezra and not some kind of debris in the water. My legs were going numb, and feeling anything was almost impossible.

I knew letting go of the post would mean I would begin to float downstream, becoming less likely to find Ezra in the water, but if he had brushed against my leg, then I had only seconds to locate him before he, too was swept far away from me. This kid, who I had never met twenty minute ago, was depending on me to make the right decision to save his life. If I made one small mistake, we were both as good as dead.

As the water pushed against me, I steadied my legs against the wooden post as best I could and let go with my arms. I knew I couldn't hold myself in that position long, so I took another pathetically deep breath and dove beneath the surface, trying to keep my feet against the log as I felt around the area with my arms for Ezra. The pain was unimaginable.

At first, I felt nothing but the ice cold river flowing around me, but as I continued flailing around, fighting my own lungs for the right to stay beneath the surface as they burned and pleaded for me to come up and breath, I felt Ezra's arm floating near me.

Knowing I had no time to resurface and take a breath, I grabbed the arm with both hands and kicked off from the wooden post, towards the body, hoping I wasn't too late. The skin was slick, and I feared I might lose my grip on it easily if I wasn't careful, but at that moment, all I cared about was saving Ezra's life. I couldn't let him die the same way August had, in the cold, swirling waters of the river. Alone.

Under the water, I wrapped both arms around Ezra's waste and kicked towards the surface. The air in my lungs had expired itself already, and my main concern became reaching the surface before I passed out, causing Ezra's death, along with my own.

As my head emerged from the water, I rang out a cry of both fear and relief as my lungs pulled in as much oxygen as they could. The air was frigid and breathing had become physically painful, but at the same time, I felt as if I couldn't get enough air into my lungs. As I looked over to Ezra, who I still held in my arms, I could tell he wasn't breathing.

"Ezra! Ezra, wake up!" I yelled frantically, my voice hoarse and raspy, hoping it might snap him out of his unconscious state. It didn't work, however, as we continued to bob in the water, his head tilted to one side, partially obscured by the current flowing around it.

I began kicking as hard as I could, trying to swim the two of us closer to the shore. We were directly in the center of the river, between the two banks, but a minute later, I had successfully paddled us to shore. I climbed out of the water and began to drag Ezra's limp body up the small incline and away from the water's edge. He still wasn't breathing, and I feared how long had passed since he had last taken a breath. Even if I could save him, how much damage had already been done due to lack of oxygen and exposure to the cold water? What if, at this point, he was better off dead?

I was shaking all over, in part due to the cold temperature, but also because I was terrified. I placed my ear to Ezra's chest and though he was still not breathing, I could feel a faint heartbeat coming from beneath his shirt. I immediately placed my hands together and began pumping on his chest, trying as best I could to recall how to perform CPR. I'd been trained before, but all that knowledge flies out the window the minute you actually have to use it.

I tilted his head back and pinched his nose closed with my fingers, placing my lips onto his and breathing slowly into his mouth. His chest rose slightly, and I began to pump again, waiting for that dramatic moment in the movies where the unconscious person begins to cough and spit up water, quickly realizing you've saved their life, and begins hugging you for so easily swooping in and saving them from death's door.

Ezra's body laid still on the muddy ground.

The cold air and amount of energy I'd used not only in the river, but also while trying to save Ezra began to catch up with me. I felt myself staggering, even as I continued to press on his chest with my palms. I knew at this point that I couldn't be doing much good, but I also knew I would keep trying until I passed out or died.

In the distance, I could hear faint shouts and the area around me seemed to be doused in red and blue light.

In the distance, I could see the words "Come as You Are" still freshly painted onto the bridge's understructure. Though the situation was dire, it pleased me to see I really had painted the line onto the wall and that it hadn't been another figment of my mourning imagination.

The world was spinning, and before I knew it, I found myself clutching onto Ezra's soaked body to keep from flying away. The multi-colored lights created a whirlwind around me and for some reason I knew this was the end. This must have been what death was like, feeling like you're floating and falling at the same time.

I heard, "There he is! There he is!" in the distance and could see feet running towards me. My head was on Ezra's chest, and the world was sliding away from me. I could have sworn I heard my mother's shouts and could even see her face as she threw herself onto the ground before me, shaking me by the shoulders. She was a blur, but this was the most emotion I'd seen her exhibit since we'd arrived in Aberdeen.

And then, seconds later, the world was muted, and the red and blue lights faded away. I could no longer see my mother crouched in front me, shaking me to keep me awake. I knew she was still there, but I couldn't hold on any longer. I distinctly remember letting out a sigh of relief as my world faded to black.

Chapter 10

I was sitting on the edge of the river, beneath the Young Street Bridge, very close to where I had just passed out. But it wasn't a cold night anymore; it was the middle of summer, and by the angle of the sun, I guessed it couldn't be much later than noon.

I was no longer wearing the soaked clothing from the night I tried to save Ezra, and the freezing sensation I had been feeling what seemed like only minutes before, had long since been replaced by a warmth that tingled through my body. It wasn't the annoying kind of tingle, like when your arm falls asleep, but something more internal, emotional.

I looked up at August sitting next to me and grinned. "What are you doing here?"

He smirked and shook his head at me. "You don't get to ask that question. You came to see me this time."

A sense of shock came over me, and though I wasn't afraid, the confirmation dawned on me that I must not have simply passed out; I had died.

"Did I..." I began.

"Well, you're talking to me, aren't you?" August asked. He looked exactly as I remembered seeing him last. He was happy and confident, not like the August I had lived with for so many years in California. "So I guess you did, yeah."

"Shit," I said simply, looking down at the water below. It seemed a lot more calm and placid than when I was in it, searching for Ezra. "Did I at least save him?" I asked.

"He's going to be okay," August stated firmly. "But to be honest, it was more Officer Hodge who saved him than you. You croaked in the middle of CPR."

I thought about his words for a moment and tried to take solace in the fact that I had at least managed to pull Ezra from the water. Had I not dove in after him, he would have surely drowned. I mentioned this to August and told him I was okay with dying as long as Ezra had survived.

August let out a small laugh, not able to hold it back. "You're not dead, Connor. Stop being so dramatic."

"But you said—" I started. "How am I here, talking to you, if I'm still alive?"

He rolled his eyes. "How were you talking to me all day yesterday? You were alive then, and I was still as dead as ever."

I was confused, but part of me wondered if I was supposed to be. I had no idea where I was, nor how I was communicating with my dead little brother, but at the same time, I really didn't care. We were together, sitting on the edge of the river, and that was okay with me.

"So, I'm guessing I'm going to wake up in a hospital bed pretty soon, surrounded by friends and family, telling them about how I saw the light and talked to you about the meaning of life and death," I said.

"So. Dramatic."

I let out a sigh, trying to think of a way to explain to him that I had every reason to be dramatic. This was some seriously supernatural phenomenon I was dealing with, not to mention the fact I had nearly just died only hours before.

"Look, it's weird. I know it's weird. But just rest assured that you're going to be alright, and Ezra is going to be alright, and Mom is going to be alright. Hell, I'm even going to be alright."

I took a look around at the beautiful scenery. "Yeah, I guess if you just hang out on a bridge all day, you'll probably be alright," I said confidently.

He laughed again, putting his arm around my shoulder. "Connor, this is your imagination, not mine. I'm probably floating around in Heaven with Lincoln and Gandhi, smoking cigars, and laughing about how seriously all you people down here take life."

"Are you really in Heaven?" I asked. "I mean, is it real?"

"You're really going to ask me that?"

The wind picked up, messing our hair and disturbing the long grass on the riverbank. The water rippled in defiance, and the bridge creaked ominously above us.

"What's going on?" I asked, still not completely worried.

"You're waking up," August said. He looked sad. "You know that when you wake up, I won't be there."

I nodded my understanding, fighting back tears. After all, it really didn't matter if August was dead if I could talk to him any time I wanted. However, if he was going to be gone, then he truly was gone. "You promise I'll be okay?"

"You all will," he said. "But I need you to do something for me."

The wind picked up even more, causing little waves to crash against the shore. The clear, blue sky began to fill with clouds rolling in from every direction, white and fluffy at first, but quickly changing to darker shades of grey. "Anything," I agreed over the sound of the wind.

"You have to talk to Mom. She and I, we never got the resolution we needed. But you still have a chance to change things," he shouted over the roar of the wind. "Do you remember what you said to me under the bridge, when we were spray painting it?"

I nodded.

"The change has to start with you," he said, staring directly into my eyes.

I took a deep breath, feeling more than a little strange inside. I knew it was my body telling me I didn't have long left in this place, wherever I actually was. "What about Ezra?" I asked wanting to make sure I did it before it was too late.

"If you see him again, tell him that he changed my life. And tell him that he has to go on with his own. The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. Tell him to be brave, and to live."

As we sat there, tears beginning to stream down my face, I could feel my own body pulling me away. I clung on as much as I could. "Any parting words?" I asked through my sobs, trying to lighten the mood. Even if I knew everything was going to be okay, I would have stayed there with my brother forever if I could.

"Only he who has seen better days and lives to see better days again knows their full value," August said nonchalantly, as if directing me to the nearest bathroom.

I rolled the words around in my head, trying to make sense of them, but everything was growing fuzzy, and fast. "Is that another Kurt Cobain quote?" I asked as his face turned to shock. "Don't think I haven't noticed you throwing them out there over the past day."

He smiled. "No, it's Mark Twain. I can read, too, you know."

I opened my mouth to reply, but the next thing I knew, I was no longer sitting on the riverbank with August. I was lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs and listening to machines monitor my vital signs and heart rate. I was dressed in a hospital gown and tucked tightly into the bed. There was a tube in my nose.

"Good morning," the voice said from across the room. I turned my head painfully to see Ezra in the bed next to mine. His skin was pale, and he had dark circles under his eyes. I imagined I looked equally as haggard.

When I didn't respond to his greeting, Ezra continued to speak. "You saved my life, you know. But the problem with that is that I wanted to die."

"Look, I..." I began.

"No, I know. I get why you did it. I would have jumped in after someone, too. But what I don't understand is how it all went down." He had an intrigued look on his face, as if still trying to put the missing pieces into place.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He rotated toward me in his bed, pain showing on his face. "You weren't just some random person walking down the street who saw me jump. You're August's brother. We're connected through him. How did you know I was going to be there? How did you know to come?"

I tried to think of a way to articulate my answer, but simply said, "I don't know."

"I thought you were him at first. I know that's stupid, but I thought you were him and I wanted so badly for you to be him. The two of you look a lot alike." It wasn't the first time I'd heard that I resembled my brother.

"It's not stupid," I said. "At least not as stupid as me spending the entire day with him yesterday, even though he's dead."

Ezra didn't speak. His expression told me that he had not been expecting my response, but that he was at least curious about it. I continued to explain to him everything that had happened since I arrived in Aberdeen with my mother. I told him how August and I had conversed while walking around the hospital that we currently sat in. I told him how we had gone to dinner and how he had conveniently run off when the police caught us vandalizing the bridge. I then told him how our mother had broken the news to me that August had died when he fell from the bridge two days before.

"You really didn't know he was dead?" he asked, his pain, both physical and emotional, showing on his face.

"I don't know. I feel like I would have had to have known... How did I make it through the entire trip up here and the entire day, not knowing he was gone?" I asked.

"Our minds do crazy things to us when we don't want to believe something," Ezra said. "For instance, I thought jumping off that bridge would make everything alright. I thought it would somehow reunite us in the afterlife or... something."

I sat back against my pillow and contemplated what I was about to say to Ezra, knowing it could potentially sound completely insane. "He asked me to tell you something." I said quietly. If he hadn't heard me, I had no plans on repeating myself.

"He did?"

"I don't know if it's just something I made up while I was passed out or if he really did talk to me, but he said that the hardest thing in this world is—"

"—Is to live in it." Ezra cut me off, finishing the line for me. He covered his mouth and looked around the room as if he expected to see August leaning in the corner, casually waiting to be noticed. I could see that goose bumps had appeared on his arms. "He told me that once, when we first met. There's no way you could have known that."

A knot formed in my stomach that told me I was about to be sick, but I ignored it. "He wants you to be brave, and to live," I told him.

Seeing Ezra's face form into a small smile, with tears running down his cheeks made me smile as well. There we were, two guys who had only hours before been on the brink of death, happy and positive about what was to come next in our lives. I knew at that moment that everything was going to be okay.

Two days later, I was released from the hospital. Ezra, however, was to be kept at least a day longer due to the broken ribs he had received from the fall into the water. When he gave me the news, he said it was a small price to pay in exchange for being alive, at which point I momentarily stood from my wheelchair, smiled, and gave him a hug.

Before the nurse wheeled me out of the room and to the elevator I would take to the lobby to meet my mother, Ezra and I decided that in two weeks, I would drive back to Aberdeen, pick him up, and bring him to Anderson for Thanksgiving. After all, he had no real family in Washington, and he seemed happy to have someone to spend the holiday with.

Of course, I hadn't broken this news to Mom, but I had a feeling that after everything, she would be alright with it.

As the elevator doors opened and the nurse pushed my chair into the sun-filled lobby, I could see my mother standing a few feet away. She instantly made her way across the room and bent down to hug me as the nurse took a step away.

"I can take him from here," Mom said to the nurse, who nodded and walked away, leaving us alone.

She wheeled me through the front doors and into the sunlight, where in front of us I saw my car parked against the curb. "Where's the hearse?" I asked, amazed.

She hesitated momentarily, her voice shaking when she finally did speak. "While you were recovering, I drove August home to your father so he could get preparations ready for the funeral. I decided it would be easier to drive Rusty back up here to get you."

"Thank you," I said, not sure what else to say.

"I wanted to stay with you the whole time, but with your brother's body in the hearse, I..." She trailed off.

"Mom, thank you," I said again.

The road ahead of us was going to be a long one, both literally and figuratively. We had a ten hour drive ahead of us and so much to discuss along the way. The knot formed in my stomach again, and I feared the awkward conversations and amount of crying we were about to do. But, we had to do it.

Mom helped me into the passenger's seat and returned the wheelchair to the lobby of the hospital. When she returned, she sat down, started the ignition, and sat quietly for just a moment. A Nirvana song played on the stereo as she put the car into drive.

"Are you ready?" she asked, her voice shaking still.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

She put the car into drive, and seconds later we were pulling out of the Grays Harbor Hospital parking lot and hitting the road to home. As she signaled and turned onto Interstate-5, I looked to her with a smile and said, completely without fear, "I think we have a lot to talk about."

About the Author

Christopher Waltz was born in Indiana in 1987 and promptly began writing once leaving the womb. While this is a complete lie, Christopher did begin writing around age eight at which point he penned and illustrated a sequel to the film "Jumanji," and later, many short stories based on the TV show "Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

Since that time, Christopher has continued writing and obtained a degree in secondary education from Indiana University's School of Education in 2011. He currently works as a middle school English teacher and Young Adult and Horror author.

His debut novel, Ivy League, has been reviewed as "dark and gritty" and "unique YA," and is available now. The sequel to Ivy League, Old Habits, will release October, 2015.

You can visit follow Christopher on Twitter: @christoph_waltz.

