by Chuck Wendig
“Thanks?”
“You ever think of being a cop?”
“Like, now?”
“No,” Holger says with a laugh. “Training to become one.”
“Oh, I dunno about that. I have been thinking about what’s next, though.”
“Work hard, graduate. The police academy awaits.”
Atlanta shrugs. “I don’t much like people. I’m guessing being a cop means working with . . . people.”
“It tends to.”
“I like animals. I was thinking maybe something with animals.”
“Whatever you do, Atlanta, I just hope you manage to stay out of trouble. Whatever shitstorm comes blowing in, maybe next time stay inside.”
“I will. Thanks, Detective.”
“Cherry, remember?”
“Thanks, Cherry.”
Later that night, Atlanta’s sitting in the hospital room with her mother, watching HGTV. House Hunters. They’re playing a drinking game—any time someone says one of the key bingo phrases, they take a drink. Granite countertops. Man-cave. House with a view, or walkable to the beach. Stainless steel appliances. A wife seeing a big closet and saying to her husband: Okay, now where do you think your stuff will go?
A couple looking at a condo in San Diego say one of the bingo phrases: Double sinks.
“Take a drink,” Arlene says, her voice scratchy and deep.
Atlanta holds up her cup of Kool-Aid fruit punch, knocks it back.
Mama’s drinking the heavy stuff: grapefruit juice. She urps. “Oh, god. This reflux is killing me.” She groans as she sits up. As the show cuts to commercials, she says: “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“You’ll be cool with that?” Atlanta asks. “I mean, it’s cozy in here. People bringing you meals. Every day’s a new bouquet of flowers from Paul.”
“That man.”
“He kinda saved our asses.”
“He’s still on my shit list. Though lower down, now,” Arlene says.
“Yeah, well. Same here, I figure.”
Mama reaches out, takes Atlanta’s hand. “I just wanna go home, but home isn’t even home right now.” She shuts her eyes, keeps on talking. “Will be soon. Insurance check will come in before long.”
“That’ll be nice.”
Atlanta’s mother’s been in here for a week now. The bullet did a number on her innards, but not as bad as the infection that came after. They had a hard time dealing with it—had to run her through a few different courses of high-octane antibiotics. It’s under control now, though, and her guts are stitched up inside and out. That means it’ll soon be time. Time to return to normal life.
Much of a normal life as they could have.
Atlanta’s phone chimes.
A text.
Shane: How’s your mom?
Atlanta: she’s good thx
Shane: Come over tonight? We’re at Josie’s.
Atlanta: can’t gonna hang with the mama bear
Shane: Cool. By the way: Bee is here.
Atlanta: cool cool she doin okay
Shane: I think so.
Shane: She says she loves you. I say we all love you.
Atlanta: aww love you too little burrito
Shane: You ruin nice things.
Atlanta: i know
She sends him a poop emoji.
Arlene’s eyes pop open again. “Hey. I’ve been thinking.”
“There’s a dangerous sentiment.”
“Now, come on. You’ll like this.”
“Do tell.”
“I say we pick up and leave.”
Atlanta lifts an eyebrow. “Leave? Like . . . leave leave?”
“Darn tootin’. We pack up, pick up, hit the bricks. Insurance money will be enough to cover a new house somewhere cheap. Or maybe rent somewhere not so cheap. We can go . . . well, I don’t want to say wherever, but lots of places. Better places. Where the people aren’t . . . the same people.”
Atlanta chews on that.
Get up and leave.
That was her idea all along, wasn’t it? Earn enough money to skedaddle. “Maybe Florida,” she says.
“See, there you go. Palm trees. Flamingos. Manatees.”
“Manatees?”
“Sea cows, sure. I saw it on TV. They’re cute.”
“They look like big marshmallows.”
“They do.”
“Florida has old people, though. And any time you read the news it’s always a Florida man ate another Florida man. It sounds like the zombie apocalypse down there.”
“But with palm trees.”
“True, true.” She sighs. “I think I’d like to stay, though.”
“You would?”
“Yeah. This is home. We’ve earned a right to stay here. I don’t want to turn tail and run. For all the things that have happened . . . there’s some good here, too. I found Whitey here. Shane, Josie, and the others. Maybe even Paul.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Atlanta shrugs and laughs a little. “I’m ready to stick it out if you are.”
“I’m as ready as a rainbow, sugar pop.”
Atlanta kisses her mother’s hand. “I love you.”
“Love you too, baby. Love you, too.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © Michelle Wendig
Chuck Wendig is the author of The Heartland Trilogy and the Atlanta Burns series for young adults, as well as numerous novels for adults, including Star Wars: Aftermath and the popular Miriam Black series. He is also a game designer and screenwriter. He cowrote the short film Pandemic, the feature film HiM, and the Emmy-nominated digital narrative Collapsus. Chuck lives in “Pennsyltucky” with his family. He blogs at www.terribleminds.com.