“So have we,” he said though his voice was gentle.

“One more campaign,” he wiped away tears.

Page laughed, “So, you haven’t forgotten us.”

The Guitarist stood up, brushed off his jeans. Page rose, but nothing clung to him. Iggy swallowed, wrung his hands, but his friend walked through the tree line. After a moment to hum a tune, he followed.

When last he walked over the bridge, it was in shambles. Ranked one of the ten most dangerous in the country, it was high above the Cumberland. Page walked beside him though watched closely. After watching a movie at the Winder Rose Mall, they had crossed over the bridge. Swearing he could feel it shake, Iggy had held his breath until one of them would nudge him. Once he had passed out, but they had replaced the bridge with a federal grant. His chest tightened, but his old friend occupied his mind, even the music fell to a low volume. The Guitarist felt the migraine deepen, and he staggered. Page gave him a whack. He pushed on, as the teenager watched.

The migraine pounded like a sledgehammer against his skull. His foot struck the pavement on the other side. Gone, his headache was lifted. Iggy paused, bent over, and drew in long breaths. Music turned up as his shakes settled down.

Iggy looked at him, took another deep breath. “Page, brother, did I do…,” he asked, refused to look away.

“I don’t know,” he shook his head, “I didn’t see anything.”

“Things are coming back,” his brow furrowed. “I thought, because of my head,” He said and touched the scar, “I would never remember.”

“Do you remember anything?” asked Page.

“I recall the crossroads,” he blushed, “and we walked to the mall, watched the movie, and then came back.”

Page frowned, “Wait…dude did you go to the crossroad, because of that Jimmy Johnson thing?”

He looked away, shrugged, “You guys were going to college, after high school. No matter how good I was, no one wanted to give me a chance. Even if I was better at music, just because my family lived out on Nottingham Knob Branch.”

“I knew that girl from Duncannon getting that scholarship got to you,” he popped fingers, shook his head. “Those spoiled, New Money brats were always butt kissers!” Page’s blue eyes found him, “But, to go down to the crossroads, because of Jimmy Johnson, that is going too far.”

Iggy pushed paste him towards another back road. “You were going places, dude,” his brow drew down. “You weren’t the son of the town mean drunk, and the town,” he shook his head. As low as his parents were held in the eyes of the town, both thought less of him.

“You aren’t your parents,” he followed.

“You know what that music teacher told me,” he glanced back at Page. “She said it didn’t matter, because Mary’s parents could get her through college. She said I would be lucky to keep a job at a factory, knock up some girl, and not drink myself to death.” He stopped, shrugged, “You know what, she was right.”

“You just freaked her out,” he scowled, “your music can feel intense, in a good way.”

“I’ll go back to see my mom, but I’ll dust my boots off, when I leave Lear County,” he swore.

Page walked beside him, each step like he had springs on his heels. “At least we only saw that black truck once that day,” he kicked at a rock, but his foot only tipped it over.

Hairs raised on his neck, “Blue cars, man, you think about them, and you’ll see them.”

“I don’t know,” he looked back.

Iggy looked where Page glanced, “Oh my GOD!” He froze, numb. Three shadows walked behind them. Run, a voice screamed inside, but his body refused to move.

“It is Mickey, Josh, and Brandon,” Page smiled. “The Dud Gang is all here now.”

Iggy could see only their outlines, but recognized them. “We came this way that night,” he said, felt the world disconnected or looped in upon itself. Too old to trick-or-treat, he recalled, except for Mickey, who had tried for a month to convince them otherwise.

Page looked at a silhouette, “Yeah, dude, you’re right. We should have gone out Sabbath Branch, checked out that Hill Witch’s house.”

“Don’t call her that,” he turned away from his friends, “don’t be jerks.”

“What are you talking about?” Page frowned at the Guitarists sharp tone. “It isn’t like you ever met her,” he laughed, but Iggy looked away. “You did meet her!” he squealed.

He walked, ignored the teenager, but the others gathered to him. “Fine, he threw up his hands, “she wasn’t ugly or a monster. Bethany was nice.”

“Wow, awesome,” Page breathed, “why did she talk to you?”

“The Sheriff, Rutger, he asked her to talk to me,” he shrugged. “It was about the,” Iggy looked at them, felt his heart drop, “there said something about strange circumstances.”

“Did she say anything, you know,” he thrummed, bounced about.

Iggy opened his mouth, but her question echoed back to him. “She asked me, if I had seen you guys.”

“Bizarre,” he blinked, mouth agape.

The Guitarist listened to the music, which was the clearest it had ever been. Each step grew smooth, despite the ache of his heart. He whistled a tune, and sweet were the notes. Iggy’s mind was filled with memories, like a half formed song, but arranged in disorder. “I just can’t put it together,” he looked at Page and the shadowy figures. “Hey, man,” tears filled his eyes, spilled, “did I, you know, did I do it?”

Page’s eyes filled, but disappeared before they could touch the earth. “Like I said: I don’t know,” he shook his head, “I saw nothing but a flash, and a few moments of pain.”

Iggy turned away. For years, he had tried to recall anything, but today was the first time he could remember anything. “You were my only friends,” he trudged on, prayed to be innocent.