(AN: Chapter rewritten)
Age 8
The summer heat did not arrive in Medford, it sat down and refused to move. It pressed against the windows like a palm. The air outside looked tired, the kind of tired that made the road shimmer and made the grass smell sharp when it got cut. Cicadas buzzed from the trees and fence posts, a constant static that never fully stopped, like somebody had left a radio on low volume in the next room.
Stephen woke up sticky.
The sheet clung to his legs. His T-shirt was damp at the back. He pushed himself upright and listened for a second before he got out of bed. The house had its usual sounds. The fan clicking. The refrigerator motor hum. A cabinet door closing too hard, then a softer one right after it, like someone was trying to pretend they had not been rough.
Mary's voice floated from the kitchen, gentle and rushed at the same time. "Georgie, not like that, you are gonna break it."
Georgie answered with a noise that was not a word. It carried irritation anyway. His footsteps thumped down the hall, fast and careless. Eleven-year-old feet did not try to be quiet.
Stephen swung his legs off the bed and stood, bare feet on the cool strip of floor by the baseboard. Cool did not last long in this house. He padded down the hall. The carpet scratched his toes where it had worn thin.
The kitchen smelled like bacon and paper ink.
George Sr. sat at the table with the newspaper spread wide like a shield. His forearms rested on either side of the pages, elbows out, claiming space. A plate sat near his left hand with bacon stacked too neatly, as if someone had arranged it to keep it from being stolen. His coffee was there too, black, steam gone already. He looked half awake, eyes moving across the print, jaw working like he was chewing on thoughts.
Mary moved between the stove and the counter, hair pinned up, face clean, no makeup, apron tied tight. She did not move like she used to. Not since spring. She still got things done, but now she did them with an extra caution, like the day might crack if she handled it wrong. She set a plate down, wiped a spot on the table that was not dirty, then wiped it again.
Georgie stood at the counter with cereal in a bowl, spoon clinking against glass. He ate like he was in a race and wanted to win against time itself. He did not sit. He never sat when he thought something outside might be happening without him.
Missy, six and stubborn, sat in her chair with her legs swinging and her eyes narrowed at a cup of juice in front of her. She had asked for it five minutes earlier and now acted like it was an insult.
"I do not want it," she said.
Mary's head turned toward her, slow. "You asked for it."
Missy lifted her chin. "I changed my mind."
"You cannot just change your mind every five seconds," Mary said, and the sentence came out sharper than she meant. She softened immediately. "Drink it, honey."
Sheldon sat at the table too, back straight, face serious as if breakfast was a meeting he had to survive. His hair stuck up on one side where he had slept on it. He did not seem to notice. He stared at the syrup bottle with the kind of focus other kids reserved for cartoons.
Stephen entered and paused in the doorway.
He always did that now. A half-second to take inventory. Who was irritated. Who was tired. Where the danger was. He scanned faces and hands and objects. The table. The stove. The sink full of dishes from last night. The mug by the place at the end of the table.
Pop Pop's mug.
It was old and thick, with a faded design on the side. It sat in front of an empty chair, handle turned outward like someone had set it down without thinking. The mug was clean. There was nothing in it.
Mary's eyes flicked toward it and away so fast it was almost nothing. George Sr. kept reading as if the print mattered more than the missing person. Georgie did not look at it at all. Missy stared at her juice like it had personally wronged her. Sheldon kept staring at the syrup.
Stephen stared at the mug until his throat tightened.
He moved anyway.
He slid into his chair and put his hands in his lap. His fingers pressed together, knuckles touching. The fan clicked overhead. The sound felt louder when he looked at the empty chair.
Mary set a plate in front of Stephen. Eggs, a pancake, a strip of bacon. She touched the top of his head as she passed, quick, the way she touched him when she wanted to remember he was still small.
"Morning, baby," she said.
"Morning," Stephen answered.
George Sr. grunted without looking up. It was his version of hello.
Georgie slurped milk and said, "I am gonna score like three touchdowns today."
George Sr. lowered the newspaper just enough to look over it. His eyes narrowed, not angry, just skeptical. "In peewee?"
Georgie grinned wide, mouth full. "Yes, sir."
Missy pointed at the pancake stack. "I want that one."
Mary turned, spatula in hand. "Which one?"
"The pretty one," Missy said, like that settled it.
Mary stared at the pancakes as if trying to see what Missy saw. "They are all pancakes."
Missy planted her hands on the edge of the table. "That one," she insisted, jabbing a finger.
Mary sighed and put the pancake on Missy's plate. Missy watched it land like she was afraid somebody might take it back.
Sheldon finally spoke.
He reached into his pocket and produced a ruler. The plastic was clear, edges nicked. He set it beside the syrup bottle and leaned close enough that his breath fogged the plastic.
"Maple syrup has a different flow rate depending on temperature," he said, voice careful and firm, as if he was reading a fact card to an audience that had paid admission.
Georgie's head snapped toward him. "What are you doin' with a ruler at breakfast."
"I am measuring," Sheldon said.
"Measuring what," Georgie asked.
Sheldon tapped the ruler against the syrup bottle. "The distance the syrup travels in a set amount of time."
Missy made a face. "Ew."
Mary's shoulders dropped a fraction, the way they did when she was trying to find patience and had to dig for it. "Sheldon, honey, can we not do experiments at the table."
"It is not an experiment," Sheldon said. "It is observation."
George Sr. muttered behind the newspaper, "Lord help me."
Stephen watched Sheldon's hand. The ruler was held too tight, knuckles pale. Sheldon's eyes were fixed on the bottle like it could betray him. Stephen did not think Sheldon cared about syrup. Stephen thought Sheldon cared about being able to control something in a house where people kept disappearing.
Georgie leaned over and flicked the syrup bottle with one finger. The bottle wobbled.
Sheldon jerked, fast, grabbing it to steady it. "Stop that."
Georgie grinned. "What you gonna do. Measure me."
Sheldon's voice went higher. "I will tell Mama."
Missy laughed once, short and sharp.
Mary's head turned. "Georgie."
Georgie opened his mouth, ready to argue.
Stephen took a sip of his water and stayed quiet. He could feel the room build toward a fight the way he could feel a storm coming, not because he saw rain, because the air tightened.
Before Georgie could push and before Sheldon could turn it into a lecture, there was a knock at the front door.
It was loud. Hard enough to make Mary flinch.
Georgie half stood up immediately, chair scraping. "I got it."
Mary pointed at him with the spatula. "You sit."
Georgie sat back down like it physically hurt him.
The second knock came, faster.
Missy perked up. "Who is it."
Sheldon frowned. "It is not the mailman. The mailman does not knock twice."
Stephen slid out of his chair and walked toward the door without asking permission. If he waited, Sheldon would start speculating. Georgie would start yelling. Mary would get pulled into it and George Sr. would end up snapping.
Stephen opened the door.
Billy Sparks stood on the porch, sweat already shining on his forehead. His hair stuck out in a mess. His grin was too big for his face. He held something in his hands that Stephen could not see fully from the angle, but it had the shape of a kid's toy weapon, metal and plastic, something meant to make noise and trouble.
"Hey!" Billy said, voice loud enough to rattle the screen door. "Y'all wanna come out and play? My dad said I can use the BB gun if I do not shoot nothin' important!"
Stephen's stomach tightened.
Behind him, Mary's footsteps came quick. She appeared over Stephen's shoulder and her expression changed the moment she heard "BB gun." It was not a scream. It was not anger. It was that church-lady smile that could freeze water.
"Billy," Mary said, voice sweet and sharp, "that is lovely, honey, but maybe later."
Billy blinked at her like he was trying to understand why this was not the best idea anyone had ever had. "But we can shoot cans," he said. "And maybe bottles if we clean up."
Sheldon's voice floated from the kitchen, stiff and certain. "Statistically, you will shoot something important."
Billy turned his head toward the sound and frowned. "Huh?"
Stephen stepped forward, blocking the doorway more fully. He kept his voice polite. He kept it short.
"No thank you," Stephen said. "But thanks for askin'."
Billy looked at him like Stephen was a math problem. He squinted hard, then his face opened into laughter, big and loud, like the situation amused him.
"You talk funny," Billy said.
Stephen did not correct him. He shrugged once, small. "Okay."
Billy lifted the BB gun a little, not aiming, just showing it off like a trophy. "I am gonna go see if them cans still by the ditch," he said, and then he trotted off the porch, feet pounding on the wooden steps, already yelling at somebody down the street.
Stephen closed the door and latched it.
He turned and found Mary watching him.
She did not scold. She just exhaled, slow, like she had been holding her breath.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Stephen nodded.
Georgie slumped in his chair like he had been denied oxygen. "Mama, why we cannot go."
Mary's eyes narrowed. "Because I said no."
Georgie rolled his eyes and shoveled another bite of cereal into his mouth. Missy giggled at him. Sheldon resumed staring at the syrup with offended concentration, ruler still in his hand.
Breakfast continued.
It was still chaos. It was still loud. It was still sticky and irritating and full of interruptions. The mug at the empty chair stayed where it was. Nobody moved it. Nobody said Pop Pop's name. The house kept going anyway.
Sunday mornings were different.
Mary treated Sundays like something you had to assemble. Like you could line everyone up, press them into their best clothes, smooth every wrinkle, and God would reward you with a day that did not fall apart.
The smell of starch and hairspray filled the house. Mary moved through the hallway with a spray can in one hand and a comb in the other, corralling children like she was herding cats.
Missy tried to escape twice. Mary caught her by the shoulder each time, not rough, but firm enough to say there was no debate.
Sheldon complained about his collar.
"It itches," Sheldon said, tugging at it hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.
Mary's fingers fixed it, then fixed it again. "Stop pulling."
"It is touching my neck," Sheldon said, as if Mary had not noticed where collars went.
Mary's smile stayed on her face, but her jaw tightened. "That is what collars do."
Sheldon tilted his head, eyes bright with argument. "Why does God want me to wear something that is uncomfortable."
Mary's hand paused in midair. Her eyes fluttered closed for half a second like she was praying for strength.
"Because we are going to church," she said.
"That is not an answer," Sheldon replied.
George Sr. snorted from the kitchen, already irritated, already half dressed, belt in his hands. "We're gonna be late. Now get in the truck."
Georgie stomped down the steps wearing shoes that were too nice for him. He kept trying to loosen his tie like it was strangling him. "This is dumb," he muttered.
Mary heard him anyway. "George Cooper."
Georgie shut his mouth fast.
Stephen stood still and let Mary adjust his shirt. He could button it himself, but Mary liked doing it. She liked the feeling of control. Stephen did not fight her on Sundays. Not when he could see the strain around her eyes and the way her hands shook slightly when she thought nobody was watching.
The truck ride took ten minutes.
Dust hung in the air behind them. The sun was bright enough to make everything outside look washed out. Stephen watched the trees pass and listened to the engine. The steady vibration through the seat calmed his brain in a way it should not have.
First Baptist Church was white and clean, the kind of building that looked like it had never been dirty. The steeple gleamed under the sun. When they walked in, cool air hit Stephen's face. It smelled like old wood and perfume and something powdery that reminded him of books left closed too long.
Ceiling fans spun slow inside, pushing warm air around without fixing it. The pews creaked when people sat. Shoes scuffed. Somebody coughed and tried to hide it.
Pastor Jeff stood at the front, cheerful and certain.
Stephen had seen him smile at funerals. Stephen remembered that more than any sermon. The way Pastor Jeff's face stayed bright while Meemaw's mouth stayed hard. The way Mary's eyes had gone swollen. The way George Sr. had stared at his hands like he was holding something that could not be set down.
They took their seats.
Sheldon sat upright, hands in his lap, eyes fixed forward like he was preparing to challenge the sermon to a debate. Missy swung her legs under the pew, heel tapping the wood. Georgie slouched and looked around, bored and restless. George Sr. sat heavy beside Mary. Mary sat straight, shoulders back, chin up, face composed like this was where she belonged.
The sermon started with a knock on the pulpit.
The sound made Stephen blink. It echoed in the room. Pastor Jeff's voice filled the space, smooth and practiced, rising and falling in rhythm that made people nod at the right moments. Words about the world. Words about being pulled away. Words about holding strong.
Stephen tried to listen.
His attention slid off the content and latched onto everything else instead. The fans above spun in lazy circles. He counted rotations until his mind settled. The light coming through the windows made dust visible, tiny particles floating like they had nowhere else to be. A baby cried near the back and got shushed. A woman's necklace clinked when she moved. Pastor Jeff's hand gripped the pulpit edge hard when his voice got louder.
Stephen looked at Mary.
She watched Pastor Jeff like she was thirsty. Her hands were clasped together so tight her knuckles were pale. Her lips moved silently sometimes, as if she was repeating lines to herself. Stephen noticed the way her eyes went wet when Pastor Jeff mentioned heaven. She blinked hard and kept smiling.
Stephen looked down at his own hands.
They were small. Clean. He could not quantify what Mary carried. He could not measure it with a ruler. He could not solve it like an equation. His brain tried anyway, then got nowhere, then went quiet in frustration.
After service, Pastor Jeff stood at the door shaking hands.
He smiled like he knew everyone's secrets and loved them anyway. Mary's voice went extra sweet when she greeted him. She told him thank you. She told him the sermon was good. Stephen watched the way her smile stayed in place even when her eyes looked tired.
Pastor Jeff bent slightly to address the kids. "How are y'all doin'," he said, hand out.
Stephen took it because that was the rule. Pastor Jeff's grip was warm and firm. Stephen disliked being touched by strangers, but he did it anyway. He watched how adults used touch as proof everything was fine.
They stepped back into the sunlight.
The heat hit like an open oven door. George Sr. squinted and muttered something under his breath. Georgie immediately started complaining about hunger. Missy tried to run ahead and Mary snapped her name, quick, sharp, then softened again as soon as Missy returned. Sheldon walked stiff, collar still bothering him, eyes narrowed like he was collecting arguments for later.
That evening, the house went quiet in the way it only did on Sundays.
Not peaceful quiet. The tired quiet. The kind that came after a day spent smiling at people and pretending you were not carrying anything sharp inside your chest.
Dishes sat drying in the rack. The kitchen smelled like fried chicken and lemon soap. The light outside turned orange and heavy. Down the street, a sharp popping sound carried on the air, probably Billy Sparks shooting at cans or a fence post or something that used to be a can.
George Sr. was in the driveway with the truck hood open.
He stood with his hands braced on either side of the engine bay, face tight with irritation. The engine smelled like metal and oil and heat. He muttered words under his breath, not loud enough for Mary to hear from inside, but loud enough for Stephen to catch. Stephen came out anyway, drawn by the sound, drawn by the way George Sr. looked more honest when he was fixing something.
Stephen stopped a few feet away and waited.
George Sr. did not look up at first. His hand moved through the engine compartment, fingers searching. A wrench clinked against metal. He sucked air through his teeth like the truck had personally offended him.
Stephen stepped closer and set himself beside the fender. The metal was warm under his forearm. He watched George Sr.'s hands, the way his fingers moved with practiced frustration. He knew the shape of the tools George Sr. used. He knew where George Sr. kept them. He could predict what his father would reach for next by the angle of his wrist.
George Sr. finally glanced over, half-smile trying to form. "What you doin' out here, little man."
Stephen shrugged. "You looked mad."
George Sr. let out a short breath that might have been a laugh if it had energy behind it. "This truck is a piece of junk sometimes."
Stephen looked into the engine bay. He did not understand engines the way he understood numbers, but he understood patterns. He understood the ritual of fixing.
George Sr. reached out without looking and his hand hovered for a second, searching for a tool. Stephen picked up the wrench from the ground and placed it into his father's palm at the exact moment his fingers curled.
George Sr. paused.
He looked down at the wrench in his hand, then at Stephen, and the half-smile became real for a second.
"Thanks," George Sr. said.
Stephen nodded.
George Sr. tightened a bolt, then leaned his weight against the truck. He looked up at the sky, squinting as the sun sank behind the trees. The cicadas started up again, louder now, filling the space where conversation would normally go.
George Sr. spoke without looking directly at Stephen. "You believe any of what the preacher said."
It was not a joke. It was not a trap either. It sounded like a man asking a question he did not know how to ask.
Stephen felt his chest tighten.
He was eight. He had thoughts that did not fit inside eight-year-old mouths. He also had a father who did not like long answers. Not because George Sr. hated learning, because long answers meant emotion, and George Sr. avoided emotion like it could burn him.
Stephen chose the smallest truth he could carry.
"I think people need it," he said.
George Sr. made a sound in his throat that might have been agreement, might have been exhaustion. "Yeah. Your mama sure does."
Stephen watched George Sr.'s face as he said it. There was affection there, but there was something else too. Fear. Worry. The kind of worry that lived under the skin and did not leave.
Stephen kept his voice low. "Pop Pop did too."
George Sr. stopped moving.
For a second, he just rested his arm on the truck and stared out into the yard like he could see spring again, see a chair in a different kitchen, see a man who was no longer there. His jaw worked once, slow. His throat moved as he swallowed.
"He sure did," George Sr. said quietly. "He sure did, little man."
They stood there.
No speeches. No comfort lines. The cicadas buzzed, the engine ticked as it cooled, and the driveway held the heat like it refused to let go. George Sr. reached for a beer on the ground beside the tire and took a sip, then held the can loosely like he had forgotten it existed.
Stephen leaned his shoulder against the warm fender and watched the last light sink.
George Sr. set the beer down and reached back into the engine bay. He twisted a wire, tightened something else, then nodded to himself as if he had finally won a small argument.
"Alright," he muttered.
He climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key.
The truck coughed once, then rumbled to life.
The sound settled into a steady hum, deep and familiar, a vibration that traveled through the driveway and into Stephen's feet. George Sr. let it run for a second, listening, head tilted. The engine stayed steady.
George Sr. looked out the open window at Stephen. His face was softer now, not happy, not sad, just less guarded.
"Go on," he said. "Get inside. Your mama's gonna start wonderin'."
Stephen pushed off the fender. He brushed his hands on his pants even though they were not dirty. He nodded once.
"Yes, sir," Stephen said, and he turned toward the house.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.