Travis’s mom, lying on the floor, sobbing, three nurses stroking her back and trying to comfort her.
Something broke loose inside Dill’s mind. Something that had been moored against the roaring tumult. It came untethered and crashed around with reckless abandon—burning, shattering, consuming. He stopped seeing color and all became a swirling, howling, leaden gray desolation. But the pain hadn’t arrived. The way the sea recedes before a tsunami, so every part of him receded. And then the pain struck.
Dill had never manifested the gift of tongues. The Holy Spirit had never moved in him that way, just as it had never permitted him to take up the deadly serpent. But on the floor of White County Hospital, he screamed in some anguished and alien language of bereavement. He was unaware that Lydia knelt beside him, gripping his arm like she would plummet off the Earth if she let go, doing the same.
His mother’s tone was sharp when he finally walked in. “Where were you?” But when she saw his eyes, his face, her tone became guarded concern. “Dillard? What’s the matter?”
He already loathed the words, and he hadn’t actually spoken them aloud to anybody. As if they were some terrible incantation that made it more real. They felt like thorns on his tongue. “Travis is dead.”
“You don’t mean your friend Travis do you? Bohannon?”
He sat and put his head in his hands. He stared at the kitchen table. Numb. “Yes.”
Dill’s mom gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Sweet merciful Jesus,” she whispered. “Poor Anne Marie. What happened?”
Dill shook his head.
“Was…he saved?”
Dill expected the question and still had to think about how exactly to answer. “He had his salvation.”
“I have news,” Lydia said as Dill climbed her porch steps. “Let’s sit down.”
Lydia’s porch swing creaked as they swung slowly. “They caught the guys who did it,” Lydia said. “My dad heard about it from one of his patients who works for the sheriff’s department.”
“Are you serious?” Dill asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s only been three days.”
“Yeah. Seems like longer.”
“I know.”
“Do they know what happened?” Dill asked.
“Two asshole idiot meth heads were at a party in Cookeville. They wanted to score some meth, but they didn’t have money. One of them saw Travis selling firewood when he went to visit his grandma earlier. So he went ‘I’ve got an idea where we can get some quick cash.’?”
“But why did they shoot him?”
“When they caught the guys, it turned out they barely knew each other. They’d met that night. They didn’t even know each other’s last names. So the one who didn’t do the shooting immediately snitched on the one who did. He said that as they were driving away, the shooter guy said that he shot Travis because he thought Travis was grabbing for a stick or a baseball bat.”
“The staff.”
“Yeah,” Lydia said. “They killed our friend for one hundred and twenty-three dollars.” Even saying the words wounded her. They killed our friend. The phrase was a bright, sharp pang, ringing through the white noise humming in her brain.
“I hope they burn in hell. Forever.”
“Me too. And I hope they do it with a case of poison ivy on the inside of their skin.” Lydia knew she could muster contempt for people she despised. But she surprised even herself with how much she wanted misfortune to befall Travis’s killers.
It was unseasonably warm for February. Birds were singing that they usually didn’t hear until later in the spring. Lydia wore a simple black dress. Dill wore a cheap black suit that had belonged to his father. It fit him poorly, but not as poorly as it would have had Lydia not made some hasty alterations. They swung for a while without speaking. They sat with their legs touching, as if to remind each other that they were there.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” Dill said. Not that he needed to say it. His face showed more than he could ever reveal in words.
“Me neither. Maybe ten hours in the last three days.” Not that she needed to say it either.
“Every time I start to drift off to sleep, I remember. And it jerks me awake.”
“The few times I have been able to sleep, there’s about ten seconds when I first wake up that I don’t remember. Then I remember. So I guess I’ve spent maybe forty seconds not thinking about it.”
“I can’t see myself ever feeling completely right again. The way I did before.”
“Me neither.” Lydia sighed and looked at her phone. “We should probably go.”
“I really don’t want to.”
“Me neither.”
“I mean, I want to be there for him. I just don’t want to be going to a funeral for Travis.”
“I know.”
They got up and began walking. The funeral home was barely two blocks away. As they walked, Lydia worried about what would become of Dill. As soon as the numbness wore off, that’s what would replace it—concern. Guilt over leaving Dill behind. Alone. Without a plan. Without backup. Without direction. Lost. Adrift.
When they arrived at the funeral home, they stood outside for a moment, gathering their strength to go inside. “Let’s wait until my mom and dad get here,” Lydia said.
While they waited, a short, red-haired girl about their age in a black velvet dress arrived alone. She was crying.
Dill leaned in close to Lydia. “I think that’s Amelia. Travis showed me a picture of her one night while he was staying with me.”
“Travis was staying with you?”
“Yeah. I guess it’s safe to tell you now. His dad beat him up the night he met G. M. Pennington and kicked him out. He tried to rip up his book, but Travis fought for it and won. He didn’t want you to know because he was afraid you’d call the cops on his dad.”
Lydia’s face took on a grim cast. “He was right. I would have.”
“We should say something to her in case it is Amelia. Travis was pretty crazy about her.”
They approached her awkwardly.
“Are you Amelia?” Lydia asked.
Amelia looked surprised to be recognized. “Yeah…are you guys Lydia and Dill?”
“Yes,” Lydia said. “Nice to meet you. We heard good things. How did you know to come?”
“The police got in touch with me. I was one of the last people he talked to before he died.” Amelia wiped her eyes. “The funny thing is that I heard so much about you guys from Travis. And now I’m meeting you before meeting him.” She paused. “I guess it’s not really very funny. But you know what I mean.”
“We do,” Lydia said.
“We were supposed to meet up and read Deathstorm together. We were also going to go to the Renaissance festival. I guess we had a lot of plans.”
“Travis and I were going to get a place together and be roommates after we graduated,” Dill said.
“I was critiquing Travis’s first story,” Lydia said.
“You were the one who made it so that Travis could meet G. M. Pennington. He said that was the best night of his life. Will you send me that story Travis was working on?” Amelia asked.
“Of course.”
They were silent for a moment as they thought about all that died with Travis.
Dr. and Mrs. Blankenship, dressed in black, walked up. Dr. Blankenship, looking uncharacteristically grim, kissed Lydia on the cheek and shook Dill’s hand. Dill and Lydia introduced her parents to Amelia. Dr. Blankenship sighed and looked at his watch. “Well, I think the hour is upon us. Shall we?”
They went inside. The funeral home smelled of old hardwood, lemon furniture polish, and white lilies and gardenias. Hippie Joe was there. He and Travis weren’t close, but he went to all students’ funerals. A couple of Travis’s shop teachers came. A few people Dill said he recognized from church. Then, to Lydia’s considerable annoyance, there was a pack of classmates from Forrestville High, none of whom had ever known or cared about Travis particularly when he was alive, but in death saw a grand opportunity for drama and pathos.