By the time Michael and Kyle had returned to the trailer park, the neighbor whose window they broke was in a screaming match with Meemaw and Papaw. The shirtless man with a pasty, bloated stomach hanging over his jeans yelled until he was red in the face. Michael’s mouth felt made of cotton when they all turned towards him. With his heart pounding in his chest and his voice rattling, he said, “I know you’re mad.”

The neighbor screamed, “I knew it was you!”

Sensing Kyle was scared and confused, Michael rationalized that he would be better able to handle the situation than the poor seven year old. So Michael lied, “Yes.”

“Dammit, boy! You give me five hundred right now, or I’m callin’ the Sherriff!”

Papaw spoke up, “Ain’t no window round here worth five hundred dollars. But we’ll start with a patch up, and then we’ll get you some nice new glass.”

Michael added, “One you can see through, too.”

The neighbor gritted his teeth and ordered Meemaw, “You keep that boy in line!”

Everyone watched the neighbor staggered back towards his trailer when Papaw said, “Go home, Kyle.”

“Yes, mister! Goodnight Mikey.” Kyle gave him a quick hug around his legs and ran off.

Like a child, Michael stared the ground in front of Papaw, too ashamed and frightened to look him in the eye. No matter how much bigger and stronger he grew, Michael always felt like the little boy running and screaming from the belt anytime Papaw got mad.

Papaw walked up to him with a roll of duct tape. He said to Michael, “I wonder what the hell goes through that stupid head of yours sometimes.”

Michael hung his head down as he passed by Meemaw into the trailer. Once they both were inside she secured the door shut. Michael sadly said, “You told him.”

Meemaw looked away as she said, “He don’t know about the fight yet.” Michael threw his head back and winced at the ceiling. If Papaw was already this worked up about the busted window, he knew he would be beyond furious once he learned about the suspension. Meemaw patted him in the back and said, “Getchur homework done.” She staggered over to the breadbox and took out a stiff loaf. “I’m makin’ shit on a shingle.”

Michael went into his room and started up the computer, and then stepped away to fidget with an old toy on his dresser as it loaded. He logged onto the school’s website and his grades finally flashed on the screen. He felt his heart sink down to his stomach as the failing results loaded. Not one was above fifty percent. What the hell happened? At the start of this second sophomore year he fantasized about his redemption, but now those dreams were completely lost and he’d thrown away yet another chance.

It felt as though whatever he tried to do, he would be destined for failure for the rest of his miserable life. He knew he would be a dropout, living in this trailer, leaching off his family forever. He desired nothing more than to break out of this vicious cycle of false hope and disappointment, but there seemed to be only one other way out if not through. There’d be no failures, no Tucker or Papaw, and no pain.

As discreetly as he could he stepped out of his room and retrieved a bottle of painkillers from the medicine cabinet. He locked his bedroom door, sat on his mattress, and spun the cap. He slowly, hesitantly removed the lid and held it there in a fist when his focus shifted to the distant bangs of pots and pans, running water, and then the footsteps crossing the kitchen.

Meemaw was making dinner.

His appetite wasn’t what convinced him to reconsider, but the thought of her. Specifically, of her finding his dead body, of burying him, of never being the same. Acquainted with his own twisted variety of pain and suffering, he thought he could never inflict something so atrocious on her. So he put the lid back on the bottle and returned it to the medicine cabinet.

When he came back to lie in his bed, his thoughts kept bringing him back to that bottle. He felt obsessed with the fantasy. How the pills would feel overflowing from his open palm. How his mouth would run dry as he swallowed ten at a time. He didn’t know exactly what would happen, but he hoped he’d slip into a deep sleep before passing away. But then there was Meemaw coming in to wake him and realizing he’d turned into a corpse through the night. There was the never-ending guilt and sadness and mourning. He thought of Kyle, of how they’d struggle to explain it to him. He couldn’t do it to them. He felt cowardly and stupid, but he just couldn’t do it.

Michael didn’t feel hopeful or relieved that he had decided to give his miserable life another shot. All Michael thought was that nothing was resolved. More so, he had a sickening feeling that the worst of it had yet to be unraveled.