Henry Franks(38)

“How are you?”

Henry sat down with his breakfast, not looking at his father across the table. “Fine.”

“Fine? Is that what this is?”

“What?” Henry asked.

“Nothing,” his father said, drinking down his coffee and pushing the mug away. “Are you taking your meds?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you realize how important they are.”

“I know,” he said. “You keep telling me.”

“I’m serious, Henry.”

“I said, I know. I’m taking them.”

“And the ointment? Do you need more?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Your tests,” his father said. “They looked good, really.”

“Okay.”

“Anything new?”

Henry looked up. The wind hissed against the window and his father flinched. Henry shook his head. “No.”

His father stood and walked across the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway. “Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“Dr. Saville,” he said, and then looked away. “Is she helping?”

“Helping?”

“Do you remember anything?” he asked, the words forced through gritted teeth. “About before?”

Henry pushed his chair back without answering, dropped the bowl and spoon in the sink, then walked to the front door with his father following behind.

“Henry?”

“What is there to remember?” he asked, opening the door to let the bright morning sun shine in.

“Your mother,” William said. His hand reached out, lingering in the air close to Henry’s shoulder but not touching. “Anything.”

Henry turned around and his father lowered his arm. “No.”

The wind picked up, branches banging on the windows almost hard enough to break the glass. His father flinched, slamming the door shut, bracing it with his back. Eyes wide, he pushed Henry down toward the kitchen.

“What?” Henry asked, trying to slide out of his father’s grasp. “Stop!”

“Quiet,” William whispered. “Come on.”

“Why?” He dug his heels in, sliding over the wooden floor as his father pushed and pulled at him, dragging him away from the front door.

A loose shutter beat against the siding, the deep bass thud of wood striking wood drowning out the cries of the wind. From somewhere far away, a horn honked and then, faintly, there was a knocking at the door.

“No!” his father screamed, squeezing Henry’s arm to keep him from answering the door.

Henry shook off his father’s hands and ran to the window. A branch poked the glass as he looked out.

“Justine,” he said, and slid open the bolt to unlock the door.

Behind him, his father turned the corner and disappeared into his room as Henry stepped outside.

“I heard screaming. You all right?” Justine asked.

He shook the hair out of his eyes and looked at her. “My dad was freaking out about something. Weird morning,” he said as they walked toward the bus stop.

“Did you talk to him?”

“No.” He shrugged. “He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He’s never home, and when he is he asks random questions. Just weird.”

“It’s the summer for weird.” They sat down on the bus and she squeezed his fingers. “Can you feel that?”

“Not really,” he said. “But it’s okay.”

She traced her finger up his arm, over the scars. “Tell me when,” she said as she went higher and higher.

When she was beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt his breath caught. “When.”

Justine looked around, then leaned down. She lifted the edge of his sleeve and kissed his shoulder.

“When,” he said, again, softer.

“It’s higher,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault I’m falling apart.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” she asked.

“It’s better than saying that parts of me are dying.” He turned to look out the window as the bus rumbled over the causeway.

“Henry,” she said, the word little more than a whisper.

He turned to face her, but when he went to touch her she pulled away.

“Talk to your dad,” she said. “You promised.”

“I know.”

She wiped her eyes and then reached for his hand, the hint of a smile just touching her eyes.

“Any news on Erika?” he asked as the bus reached the end of the bridge.

“Probably South Carolina, my dad says. Should turn north soon; they always do.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

She shrugged. “Might hit Savannah, maybe? They were kind of hit back when I was younger, like five or so. My mom was telling me they evacuated for Floyd.”

“Evacuated?”

“She lived in Savannah, then. Nothing here in Brunswick, though.”

“You sound disappointed,” he said as the school bus pulled up to the curb.

“Nothing ever happens in Brunswick,” she said. “Well, except this summer.” She ran the tips of her fingers over the scar circling his index finger. “Did you have a dream last night, Henry?”