by Kelley York
Then I turn to see Zeke a few feet away, eyes locked onto mine.
His mouth pulls up into a sneer. “You…”
I don’t let him finish that sentence. I’m tearing off for the trees as fast as my legs will take me. Zeke roars after me and oh, God, I don’t even know which direction to go in the dark. He screams for me to stop. Right. Like I’m about to come to a screeching halt because a rampaging bull tells me I should.
The sound of the creek is a symphony to my ears. I take a left, ducking branches, fumbling for my flashlight. Not realizing Zeke is close. Not until his strong hand wraps on my bicep and spins me around.
Except we’re close enough to the creek now, and the ground here slopes drastically. I throw my full weight back, catching him off guard enough that we both lose our footing…and down we go.
For a minute, the world goes black.
But I’ve stopped rolling. Pain blossoms hotly from my right shoulder. Snow is melting down the back of my shirt. I grasp for my flashlight—gone. My phone—gone. Only the camera is still in place. Whether in one piece or not, I don’t know. Not sticking around long enough to find out.
Nearby, Zeke groans and begins to pick himself up. I roll onto my back and scoot away, scrambling for purchase as he crawls through the snow toward me. A rivet of blood creeps down one side of his face.
“Where is he?” Zeke rasps. “Where is Chance?”
The heel of my shoe catches a rock firmly embedded in the frozen ground; it grants me enough leverage to push to my feet and start up the hill. I don’t say anything. I don’t look back. I keep going until my lungs are fit to burst and I’m on solid ground again. Only then do I look over my shoulder. Zeke is still at the bottom of the hill, struggling to climb it. I take a few steps back, mourning the loss of my phone.
But I have the camera, and right now that takes priority.
I vanish into the darkness and try to find my way home.
Hunter
I don’t have the luxury of running through every red light like the ambulance, so I figure by the time I get to the hospital lobby, they must have Chance already registered and in there somewhere. The emergency room is surprisingly quiet this time of night. Only a few parents with sniffly children and an old lady with a bad cough. I’m still wet and cold, but I had a change of clothes for work in the trunk, so I take a detour for the bathroom to at least get into something dry.
In the lobby, no one is in line so I go straight to the receptionist. “My friend was brought in just a bit ago,” I say. “Last name is Harvey.”
The lady, a younger girl with her hair braided and wearing thick glasses, checks her computer. “Hmm… No, I don’t see that name.”
I know he’s here, I start to say, then realize—I never told the paramedics his name. He’s a John Doe, for all they know, especially if Chance didn’t have an ID on him. “He came in the ambulance, he’s about my age. They probably don’t know his name.” When she only stares at me, I add, “Please. Please, can you just…make a phone call and see?”
She relents, picking up the phone and ringing somewhere else in the building to ask about a teenage boy brought in. I strain to hear whatever is said, but the voice on the other end is too muffled.
The receptionist hangs up and inclines her head. “He’s going to be all right. They’re treating him for hypothermia, and he’s sleeping.”
I brace my hands against the counter and exhale. “Can I see him?”
“I’m afraid not. Family only.”
“How do you know I’m not family?”
“You said he was your friend.” She smiles wanly. “I’m sorry. Though any information you can give us on his identity would be appreciated. They said he had no identification on him. What did you say his last name was? Harvard?”
My eyes narrow. “So I’m not allowed to see him, but I’m allowed to tell you who he is?” I push away from the counter. “No thanks.”
She doesn’t try to stop me as I stomp off. It’s a dramatic gesture, only done out of spite, and maybe I ought to go back and tell her Chance’s name, but what good will it do him? What if she inputs his name into the computer and it somehow alerts the police department? Will they come down here and arrest him? I can stand a lot of things, but I’m not so sure I could stand watching them put Chance in handcuffs and shove him in the back of a cruiser.
But I can’t just go home. I can’t sit around here forever, either, and hope a nurse takes pity on me and lets me in to see Chance. Dad might have the push to get access, but that would mean—
I’d have to tell him. He would need to know I went after Chance on that island, and there’s no telling if he would call Roger and alert them that Chance is here.
I sink onto a bench outside, exhausted from being in the cold but not wanting to be inside with the people and their flus and sniffly kids and normal, everyday problems while our world is spiraling further and further into the realm of what the hell is happening. I try to go through the steps of sorting everything out in my head.
First, most importantly, Chance is going to be okay. Hypothermia can kill you, yeah, but he was conscious and talking so he can’t be that bad. Whatever else may happen, Chance is going to live.
Second, even if the cops take him in, even if he’s arrested and punished for evading the police, it has to be better than all the running and hiding he’s been doing. Better than freezing to death. And certainly better than risking a run-in with Zeke.
Third, Dad will be severely ticked off at me, but he’ll also be happy to know Chance is safe. The anger will fade with time (and a lot of lecturing), but if Chance had died…that isn’t something that would ever go away.
After I’ve composed myself enough, I pull out my cell and call Ash again. Her phone goes straight to voice mail. Weird. Unfortunately, that means I’m stuck calling Dad because there is no landline at the house, and even if there were, I doubt Ash would answer it.
Dad’s phone rings a few times before he answers blearily, “H’llo?”
“It’s me.” Pause. “I found Chance.”
Immediately, Dad is awake and alert. “Where is he? For that matter— Jesus, look at the time— Where are you?”
“The hospital.” I grimace at the way Dad swears loudly. He doesn’t do it often, so when he does… “I’m okay. Chance is okay. He’s got hypothermia, but they said he’ll be fine. Can you just…”
I pride myself on being a pretty tough guy. Level-headed. I’m not a crier. I’m not a baby. I don’t rely on others to help me through things. But I realize right now, in this very instant, in this situation where I feel so lost and fumbling and confused…
I really, really need my dad.
Because he’s my dad, he understands without my having to finish that statement. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Hunter. Hang tight.”
Ashlin
Home has never felt so good. My bones ache from the snow, which is turning into a full-force blizzard by now. Dad’s light is still out, thank God, so I can crawl up to my room, where I sink to my bed.
And cry.
I press my face into my hands, torn between sobbing and laughing. Because I just broke into someone’s house. Because a murderer chased me through the fucking woods. Because I can’t tell anyone about it, so I need to breathe and remind myself it’s okay, I’m okay, and it was worth it. Zeke doesn’t know where I live; he can’t follow me home. No way. He’ll have gotten back into his truck and driven the hell out of here.
A failure on my part that I didn’t call the cops and get him caught, but at least if he’s away, he can’t hurt Chance.
I allow myself a few minutes to cry and laugh and breathe and work the numbness from my fingers. Then I pull the camera out of my pocket, tracing the crack across the screen with my thumb. Great.
But the camera itself isn’t important. I slide the memory card out of the side and pop it into my computer while waiting for it to boot up. I glance at the clock. Hunter should’ve been home already. Unf
ortunately, my only method of contacting him at the moment is lost, probably broken, somewhere in the woods near Chance’s trailer.
On the memory card are a ton of sub-folders. The camera automatically creates one for each day pictures are taken. Maybe I ought to start at the end, but I can’t bring myself to. Whatever is in this, I have a feeling, is not going to be pretty. Maybe I should wait for Hunter. Maybe I should…
Suck it up and be a big girl. I came this far on my own. Besides, I have to protect Hunter from what is on here, too; I can handle this better than he can, when it comes to Chance.
I open the first folder.
There are some pictures of no consequence. Some shots of the sky, trees, Chance’s room. Like he was testing the camera out, seeing how it worked. I skim through them with growing impatience, wanting to get to the important stuff. I didn’t possibly risk my life to see scenery.
Then comes a video. Short. Thirty seconds. It takes some courage for me to hit play.
Chance’s face appears, smiling and chipper and unblemished by bruises. From the positioning, I think he has the camera set on the dresser, so he can sit on the edge of his bed and talk.
“Hello! Hi!” he says, waving. “Chance Harvey here. Though if you’re watching this, you’re probably Ash or Hunter. S’up, guys?”
My heart simultaneously melts and tightens all at once. What a drastic difference this Chance is from the one I saw in the alley after work the other day.
Chance continues. “And, if you’ve found this, I’m guessing something has happened. Kind of sucks, doesn’t it? Well, to help things along, I’m using this camera to do some clue-hunting. Collect some evidence. So whatever happens…hopefully this will help.” He grins, lifts his fingers in a wiggling wave, then rises from the bed to turn off the recording.
I was right. Chance used this to document the goings-on in his house. His evidence of what his dad was doing to him—and to his mom. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I resume flicking through photos.
After Chance’s video, they take a drastic turn.
Bruises.
A hole in the wall.
A bloody nose.
These must have been during the time he was avoiding us. He didn’t want us to see what had been done to him.
A swollen lip, a black eye.
Then another video. This time, the lens is positioned from its hiding spot: Chance’s pile of clothes. It’s tucked away, recording, and anyone else in the room is oblivious to it. This video is longer; thirty minutes, to be exact. It begins with Chance positioning the camera, making sure the lens isn’t covered, but his movements are hurried, frantic, and Zeke is hollering somewhere in the background.
Chance himself says nothing. He hunkers down on his bed, still and silent. Studying his door. There’s another voice—Tabitha’s, I assume—screaming back. Crying. At the sound of that voice, Chance launches himself off the bed and out the door, and his yelling joins the cacophony of sound.
Glass shatters. Tabitha sobs. Chance and Zeke scream and scuffle.
Something hits the wall and again and again, Zeke threatens—“I’ll kill you, you ungrateful little”—and Tabitha begs for them to stop.
There are more pictures after that. Proof of the aftermath of what Zeke did beyond yelling, beyond hollow threats.
And more videos to follow. Some like the first. Nothing more than video of an empty room with shouting matches in the background. There are others, where I catch a glimpse of a fight in the hallway. More still, of Chance barreling into his room, chest heaving, nose bleeding, hands trembling with the adrenaline pumping through his system.
“—should’ve put you in a bag and drowned you—”
Zeke flings open the door with enough force that the doorknob punctures a hole in the wall. In the bedroom, Chance is safer. He is spry and knows the danger of the floor, so he springs out of the way while Zeke lunges for him and trips over shoes, stubs his toes on sock-concealed rocks, snarling and swearing.
Zeke, storming into the room another time, armed with a hammer and a fistful of nails. Chance rears back, like he expects they’re somehow meant for him, but for once Zeke ignores him and heads for the pile of clothes. For the window. The camera is knocked askew, covered with cotton, and even the sound is muffled.
“Let’s see you sneak out now.”
More footsteps. Silence.
Chance grunting while he tries—I assume—to force open the window.
“Son of a bitch.”
His voice, weak and angry and tired.
I stop after that video, rubbing at my eyes. Having to pause because I thought I heard something downstairs. Dad’s bedroom door, I think. He’s probably just getting up for the bathroom.
I wonder why Hunter isn’t home.
I watch video after video of similar yelling and fighting, flip through a dozen photos. One more, I decide, then I’ll worry about the fact my brother is out later than he ought to be.
In this video, most of Chance’s injuries are healed over, or are at least not visible. I can hear Tabitha’s voice: “—talk to you?”
“Come in,” Chance says as he drops the camera. By the way he doesn’t aim it like he has every other video, I almost wonder whether he realizes it’s recording. Chance settles back on his bed. The camera lens is catching him from the neck up. It’s the first time in all the videos Tabitha Harvey has stepped into Chance’s room, despite the number of times he flew to her defense. She never once tried to get between Chance and his dad. What kind of mother does that? What kind of parent so blatantly ignores the suffering of her kid, especially when it’s happening right under her nose?
Tabitha clicks her tongue at the state of the room, but Chance just stares at her as she sits beside him.
“I got the call from the lawyer. All I have to do is go in tomorrow and sign the paperwork, and the money is mine.” She sounds so excited, so hopeful.
Is this what happened? Was Tabitha finally going to leave her husband and get out of there? And did Zeke find out, so that it finally sent him over the edge?
“Heard that before,” Chance mutters.
“Watch your tone, young man.” Tabitha pulls her hands back as though burned. “Don’t be ungrateful. Do you want me to leave you here? Is that it? Because I will.”
Chance picks at lint on his mattress, eyes glued to his bare feet.
Tabitha prods, “Well?”
“No, ma’am.” He doesn’t look up, but everything about his demeanor is smaller, softer, afraid of being left behind. Maybe she would. She spent all his life not protecting him; why would she start now?
The video comes to an end. I only have one folder left.
“Ashlin!”
Dad’s voice jerks me out of my endless loop of dread-filled questions. I spin in my chair to face the hall. What’s he doing up this late? More importantly, what’s he doing awake and yelling for me at the top of his lungs?
I roll my chair to the door, head popping out into the hallway and calling back before Dad tries something stupid like climbing the stairs. “What?”
“Down here, now!”
The back of my neck prickles. Going somewhere, in the middle of the night? Where is Hunter? I look at my computer, worrying my bottom lip. Chance’s evidence will need to wait, I guess. For now, I flick off the monitor and head downstairs. Dad is dressed, frazzled, worried lines creasing his brow. He looks me over. “I tried calling your phone—were you still awake?” When I stare at him blankly, he adds, “You’re still dressed.”
I do my best not to look flustered. “Yeah, uh, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”
He clenches his jaw, runs a hand down his face, and turns away. “Get your shoes on.”
“Dad?” He’s starting to freak me out, like, seriously. I head to the entryway to shove my feet back into my shoes, praying Dad doesn’t notice my jeans are wet and my shoes have left a puddle of melted snow on the floor.
If he does, he makes no comment. Only grab
s his coat from its hook and swings it on. He’s either upset or he’s angry or—crap, I can’t tell which. I’ve never really seen Dad seriously angry or worried. He’s always been the sort to take everything with a grain of salt, to take a deep breath and reassure everyone around him. I let him float in his bubble of silence until we get out to the truck. Then, with me behind the steering wheel, he seems to realize he has to tell me what’s going on because I have no flipping clue where he wants me to go.
“The hospital,” he finally says, strained. “Hunter found Chance.”
My hands clench the wheel so tightly it hurts. But I put the truck into gear and pull out onto the road. I don’t trust my voice. This is why he didn’t say anything—because I shouldn’t drive if I’m upset, and because he’s upset…
“I think he’s all right,” Dad offers, but his voice is so distant I can only imagine the things running through his head. He hasn’t stopped blaming himself for this. Then again, neither have I. Neither has Hunter.
We’ve been going on and on about how he’s part of our family, and every one of us failed to protect him.
I bob my head into a mute nod but keep any commentary to myself. All right is such a vague term. Pretty much anything seems all right next to, say, death, doesn’t it? All right equates to alive but not necessarily and well. Very big differences.
There is no point in trying to comfort each other. I could promise him everything will turn out okay, that nothing else bad is going to happen, but why? We both know all too well this could end horribly. That the best years of our lives with Chance could be behind us, and everything that lies ahead…
Dread weighs heavily in my stomach.
The last time I stepped foot inside a hospital was when Dad got shot. That night wasn’t terribly unlike tonight, either. Hunter and I were home alone while Dad worked. He’d promised to be back in time for dinner and left enough cash for a pizza. Dinner had come and gone, and no Dad. We sat on the couch with a movie on, me nestled against Hunter’s side, feeling alone without Dad there and without Chance to lighten the mood.