The Serpent King(65)

“It’s there.”

“You remember your promise?”

“Yes.”

They got to Riverbank and entered, the doorbell jangling. Mr. Burson didn’t look up from his book as he stroked a cat.

“Welcome, welcome, make yourself at home, browse at your leisure. We’re not a library, but feel free to pull up a chair and read as if we are.”

Then he saw Lydia and Dill. His face fell. “Oh. Oh dear,” he murmured, putting down his book. “I’m—I’m so sorry. I was devastated to hear of Travis’s passing. He was a wonderful young man.”

“Yes, he was,” Lydia said.

“How could anyone do what those men did? To kill a boy over money.” He stared off. His jowls quivered as he shook his head. “We are a fallen species, spitting on the gift of salvation. Humanity is irredeemable.”

“We came to pick up Travis’s special order of Deathstorm,” Dill said.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Mr. Burson sounded hollow and distant. He got off his stool and waddled to his stock room. He returned a moment later, hefting the thick book. “I wish he’d gotten to read this. I don’t have anyone left anymore to talk about Bloodfall with.”

Lydia pulled her wallet out of her bag. Mr. Burson raised his hand. “Are you doing with this what I think you’ll be doing?”

“Yes,” Lydia said.

“Then take it. It’s on me. I hate that I missed Travis’s funeral. I was on a book-buying trip to Johnson City.”

“That’s sweet,” Lydia said. “But Travis loved this store and would have wanted to support it. So please let him support it this last time.”

Mr. Burson sat still for a moment, contemplating. “I suppose, then,” he said finally.

They paid for the book and went to leave.

“I’m tired of many things,” Mr. Burson said, fighting for composure. They turned. “I’m tired of watching children perish. I’m tired of watching the world grind up gentle people. I’m tired of outliving those I shouldn’t be outliving. I’ve made books my life because they let me escape this world of cruelty and savagery. I needed to say that out loud to somebody other than my cats. Please take care of yourselves, my young friends.”

“We will,” Lydia said. Or at least we’ll try. The world sometimes has different ideas. And they left.

Outside, Dill appeared even more wan and pale than usual under the blackening sky. Something about him seemed ethereal. As if he were disappearing right in front of her. Declining. Diminishing. Eroding. And she was watching it happen—bound and impotent.




They walked to the cemetery to leave Travis his book. The warm wind from the gathering storm blew white blossoms onto the road, where they lay, fallen and lovely.





The grief counselor suggested that he try to channel his grief through writing songs. So he tried. He sat on the couch, with an almost-blank page in front of him. The music felt buried in him. He strummed listlessly. The same chord over and over. He banged away in frustration, as though he could knock the music in him loose. As though he could disinter it by force.

One of his strings snapped with a scraping, rattling sproink. He hadn’t changed them since the talent competition. He stared at the broken string blankly for a moment before tossing his guitar onto the couch beside him. He leaned back and stared out the window at the darkening twilit sky. He thought about texting Lydia but it seemed like too much work. Plus, I guess I need to get used to her not being around on nights like this.

Instead he sat and tried to visualize his life in a year. He tried to envision being happy or hopeful about anything. He tried to imagine feeling any color but muted gray. He did this for a while before he decided he might as well go to bed, where he at least stood a chance of not dreaming about anything.

As he stood, he saw a car pull up to his house. It was Travis’s mom’s Ford. He watched as Mrs. Bohannon got out and walked unsteadily up to the house, clutching her coat around her, looking from side to side.

Dill couldn’t remember Mrs. Bohannon ever coming by. This was strange.

He turned on the porch light and opened the door before she had a chance to knock. She stood in the open doorway, her mouth slightly agape, as though Dill had robbed her of the last few seconds she needed to figure out what she’d say.

“Dill.”

“Hey, Mrs. Bohannon. Do you…wanna come in?”

She smiled awkwardly. Unconvincingly. She looked like she was wearing a lot of makeup—more than usual—and her eyes were red. “Could I? Is your mom here?”

Dill stepped aside and motioned for her to enter. “She’s still at work. She won’t be home for a half hour or so. Did you want to see her?”

Mrs. Bohannon stepped inside and smoothed her hair as Dill closed the door behind her. “No—no, actually it was you I came to see.”

“Oh. Okay. You wanna sit down?” Dill hurried to the couch and moved his guitar.

“Maybe just for a minute. I really can’t stay long.” She sat down and took a deep breath. “How are you, Dill?”

“I’m…” Dill started to say that he was okay. But he couldn’t. There was something in Mrs. Bohannon’s eyes that was too raw and wounded to lie to. “I’m not okay. I’m not good. I haven’t been good for…since Travis.”