Someone I love will die today.

The thought snaps Edwin's eyes open, and he freezes in his sweaty sheets, praying that this premonition came from a dream. As his heart hammers against his bony ribcage, he closes his eyes and remembers the last time he woke up with these words.

"It won't happen again," he says aloud, hoping to speak it into existence—yet the stone of fear in his gut only grows as he gets ready for the day.

Edwin checks Brad's room before remembering his grandson moved out three years ago. "I'm so proud of you," he said at the time, clapping Brad's shoulder. Seeing his solemn grandson's eyes light up was a gift; so often he was silent and still, afraid to show any semblance of weakness. It took him a while to get used to hugs, though he had stopped flinching long ago. Under Edwin's guidance, he'd grown into a high-achieving man who looked up to his grandfather.

It was only recently that Brad's eyes looked to him with anger and disappointment. "How could you have let Lisa down?" Edwin didn't know what to say; excuses lingered on his tongue like ashes, so he swallowed down his pride and apologized.

Brad couldn't accept it. He needed someone to blame, someone to lash out at, and Edwin left their conversation with shame curdling his stomach.

Now, a heavy stone of dread weighs down his gut. Someone I love will die today. That ugly promise makes him so sick he can barely swallow his coffee.

Lisa's already awake now, brushing her teeth and humming a song under her breath. Maybe everything will be fine, and my mind is playing tricks on me, Edwin tells himself. This past year has taken a toll on us all. He takes some antacids, but the feeling worsens as he reads the morning paper and drives Lisa to her new school.

Without safe topics like movies and music, their morning trip would be wordless. Lisa's still too prickly to discuss her feelings about anything of substance, but Thomas the therapist tells Edwin to be patient. "The fact that she's talking at all is a sign of progress," he had said a few weeks ago. It was the first time Edwin had ever met the man Lisa had been speaking to for months. He wasn't impressed until Thomas revealed that he, too, was a martial artist.

"You're pulling my leg," Edwin had laughed, but Thomas listed out his skills with such knowledge and authority that his authenticity shone true.

Edwin always thought shrinks were thin-wristed rats who lived off books and knew nothing of a hard day's work. Knowing that a psychiatrist could hold his own in a fistfight nearly tilted his worldview—and Thomas used this surprise to his advantage. "This is a difficult time for your whole family, I'm sure, not just Lisa," he said. "At times like these, it's important to have a sense of perspective to help you sort through everything. I have a friend who would love to talk with you—"

"That won't be necessary." Edwin cursed himself for getting into a conversation with Lisa's shrink; of course, a man well-versed in psychology would twist a light-hearted conversation into an opportunity to make more money. They know the right things to say to manipulate people. Serves me right for opening my mouth, he thought bitterly.

Still, the idea clung to his brain like a beehive on a tree. Me? Go to a shrink? No Armstrong man has ever needed to talk about their problems with a psychologist, psychiatrist or any kind of fancy-pants doctor who spends all day blabbing about feelings. If Edwin "talked to somebody," it would just open him up to more pain. No, he had to be strong and deal with his own problems. He had to support Lisa, not focus on himself and succumb to his own weakness.

When Edwin was a little boy, his father said that a man is the source of the family's strength. No matter what happens, he must bear the brunt of life's pain with a stiff upper lip, because his wife and children look to him for guidance.

"If you show even a crack in your resolve, the whole family will fall apart," his father said. Edwin didn't believe it at first, but then he waved goodbye at the train station as his father left to fight in the Great War. What returned was not the strong man he remembered, but rather a brittle shell that collapsed under the first sign of pressure. True to his warning, the Armstrong family collapsed without a strong foundation. Edwin fled his home in disgust, determined to make his own home in America.

No son of mine will be weak, he thought. I'll break the cycle and make sure my sons are happy and healthy—and strong enough to support their own kids, no matter what. His children wouldn't be left alone like he was, trapped in a leaking house with a broken father and an overworked mother who never smiled and never had anything to say. He would marry a woman who was kind and smart and hard-working, and they would create a prosperous future for the Armstrong family.

Then he fucked the pastor's daughter, and it all went to shit.

Just thinking about the past pisses him off, so Edwin shakes the thoughts away and focuses on the future. He's strong, he's doing good for his grandchildren, and he doesn't need a stinking shrink.

Still, he can't deny that Lisa's made progress since she started speaking to Thomas. Whether her change comes from the psychiatrist's sofa or the passage of time is unclear, but he's happy with the results either way. Lisa was damn near catatonic when the police plucked her from the forest, and it was only when those crazy bikers arrived that she started showing signs of life.

"You've been too damn hard on her," that blue-haired guy told him—Dice, his name was, which was as ridiculous as his studded clothes and dye-job. Edwin wasn't fond of the guy, but he and his gang were doing good, so he let them swing around. Without them, Lisa might never smile. "She's not going to know you care about her if you don't say it. Just try. It's only three little words." Dice had smirked. "How hard can it be?"

Damn hard at first. Edwin wasn't raised to say "I love you" to anyone; you proved it through your actions. Words were worthless. But it hurt his pride to see Lisa happier in a stranger's company than his own, so he chose to try anyway. The next day, when he dropped Lisa off at school, he told her "I love you" for the first time.

She didn't say anything back. Maybe she hadn't heard him. The next day, he said it again, and she asked if he was crazy. I probably am, he thought bitterly, but he just smiled and said, "I mean it." She looked alarmed and slammed the car door, scurrying away to school.

The third time, she gave him a cautious look, but nowadays, she says it back. The words tumble out hesitantly, but Edwin hopes that one day she'll speak with certainty and hug him like she did when she was a little girl.

"Bye, Lisa," he says, careful to use her name because she loathes being called 'sweetheart' or 'honey.' Saccharine nicknames remind her of Marty. "Have a good day." Awkwardly, he adds: "I love you."

Lisa gives him a small, jerky nod. "I—uh, love you too, grandpa. Bye." She doesn't return his smile as she hops out of his brown Ford and slings a backpack over her thin shoulders. Nobody greets her as she joins the rush of students entering her school; there are no friends calling her name or clapping her back. She blends into the crowd like a shadow, a dark splotch on the cheerful image of students heading to class.

The stone of dread grows in his gut. His mind assures him that he's being crazy and nothing bad will happen—but the foreboding fear digs its claws into his shoulders.

He hasn't felt this way since the day his wife died.

Ex-wife, that is. He divorced Lisa a long time ago, back when Marty was a pimply, perverted teenager. After years of watching his son shadow Lisa like a sick puppy, watching her and touching her and trying to kiss her, Edwin had enough. The sick behavior stuck no matter how hard he tried to beat it away.

Eventually, he became sick and tired of screaming at them to stop. He was sick of Lisa crying and insisting that she didn't do anything, denying what his own eyes saw. "He just needs your help," she said. "He needs your guidance. He needs your understanding..."

Edwin tried. He gave his son all the help he needed, but black eyes and beatings and lectures on depravity did nothing. What else could he do but leave? When he handed her the divorce papers, Lisa screamed and sobbed and clung to his legs, begging for him to stay.

His stomach had turned at the pathetic display. Stress and sin stretched his wife into a corpulent cow with big, stupid eyes and clinging hands, and her plain face turned ugly in her anguish. No matter how much she begged, he refused to budge. No longer would he be tied down by this woman. He gave it an honest shot; he tried to be a good man and marry her, but he could feel no fatherly loyalty to a family that refused to act with decency.

Finally, realization broke through, and Lisa's long face went ghostly white; her fingers slackened, and he tore his legs away. Without a word, he slammed the door and shut her out for good.

In those days, divorce was a shameful thing, ungodly and rotten. People would look down on them, whisper and share rumors, but nothing they imagined could be as bad as the truth.

Then the courts put Marty with his mother for three seasons, and Edwin only got to see him in the summer. How was he supposed to help his son then? Now that Lisa and Marty were alone and he wasn't there to hit them when they misbehaved, what fucked up things were they doing? As far as Edwin was concerned, putting Marty with his mother was like throwing an alcoholic into a winery for most of the year and sending him into rehab for a week. Nonsensical. Idiotic. A waste of time.

No matter how much Edwin tried to help his son, nothing changed. He started to dread summers when his stranger of a son came into his home and showered him with disrespect and insubordination. They argued until Marty stopped coming over in June; God knows what he was doing instead. Probably living with a friend. Edwin didn't care enough to find out. He would never admit it, but he was relieved to know he didn't have to look at his son's face anymore.

Years passed without a word between them. Then, one day, Edwin woke up with a stone in his stomach, a mouth full of fear, and a scary message on his mind: Someone I love will die today. He spent the morning ignoring the dread, pushing it away, but when the sun was low in the sky and ready to die, the phone rang and Marty's voice came through: "Mom's dead. It's all your fault."

Edwin never loved Lisa. Theirs was a shotgun wedding because he was too dumb and horny to stay away from the pastor's daughter, and when she got pregnant, he had two choices: marry her or eat a bullet from her furious father. They were never supposed to get married, and the child they conceived in sin was wrapped in depravity. The poor bastard never stood a chance, did he?

Still, he couldn't stop the pang of regret that shot through his heart at the news. Lisa hadn't been a good woman. She wasn't smart or strong or useful in any sense of the word. She didn't know what to do with a clinging son who pawed at her body; she was like a stupid ostrich, ignoring the issue and shoving her head in the sand, hoping it was just a phase—but that only made Marty's feelings fester and grow.

She was a weak, worthless, pathetic woman. But she didn't deserve to die with a rope around her neck, hanging from a backyard tree, suffocating and struggling and discovered by her screaming son.

Maybe Marty had a point. Maybe Edwin was at fault for his ex-wife's death; blaming her for their son's sexual depravity and calling her a perverted whore likely corroded her already-fragile mind. Maybe, if he had made amends, she wouldn't have died hating herself. Maybe she wouldn't have betrayed the Bible she was so devoted to and committed the sin of suicide.

But what was the point of obsessing over the past? Edwin refused to feel sorry for what he had or hadn't done. He was an unwavering source of strength and guidance, but as his wife's Bible said, "Do not give what is holy to the dogs; nor cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you in pieces." Marriage taught him a lesson more important than his father's. It taught him that the strongest man in the world can't lead a family determined to self-destruct. A good man can't turn water to wine or good to evil. That was the work of God, not man.

He had to save himself. He had to leave that sick, twisted situation.

Marty was wrong. It was not his fault. If Lisa's only way to cope was with a noose, then she had no one but herself to blame.

So he held the phone to his ear and drank in the news of Lisa's death. That morning, he'd woken up with an ugly sense of fear and a feeling of dread weighing down his entire body. Now he knew why, but he didn't know what to say. All he knew was that there was no point in arguing over a dead body, so he hung up the phone and let his son grieve alone.

Once he heard of Lisa's death, the stone of dread disappeared.

This morning it came back, and no matter how hard Edwin tries to stay calm, he's terrified of losing another family member. It twists his insides and makes him think of his wife. It's not fair to link his granddaughter to her namesake; they're as different as night and day. Lisa the second is strong and fierce and a spitfire to the bone—but she shares a name with the woman who died the last time he woke up feeling this way.

The thought roots him to Lisa's school. He stays in his car long after she has left, after a hundred kids hop out of their parents' cars and scuttle to their classes. He wonders if this is the day Lisa dies, if she gets into a fight and her head cracks on the pavement or a girl shanks her or God knows what. She hasn't gotten into any fights in this new school—yet.

Could this be the day the ice breaks?

Or maybe it's Brad who is in danger. They haven't spoken since their fight.

Edwin stills. Brad has grown into a good man, but he lets cracks in his armor grow and grow until they split him apart like earthquakes, and Edwin's worried that one day he'll fall apart. Learning what happened to Lisa nearly ruined him.

Maybe it already has, an angry voice whispers in the back of his head, and you've been too prideful to reach out and make sure he's okay.

Dust kicks up from his tires as he zooms onto the road. After countless visits, he knows the way to Brad's apartment by heart, and he knows that Brad keeps his key under a mat by the front door. Today, that welcome rug is askew, and the silver glint of the key sticks out from under the shoe-scuffed fabric.

What the hell is going on? Edwin wonders, and his face drops when he enters the apartment. It looks like a battleground: broken plates litter the floor, and there's a hole in the wall beside a large smear of blood.

"Brad?" Anxiety twists his voice into a shrill cry. "Bradley? Where are you?"

Every room is empty, and the fear within him grows. He searches for signs of where Brad has gone. Did someone break in? Nothing is missing, it seems—except for Brad's car keys, which always lay beside the fruit bowl and the voicemail box.

Upon further inspection, Edwin notices a beeping green light on the voicemail box, signifying a new message. Prying is impolite, and normally it's beneath him, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so he presses the button, and out comes a voice that feels like poison in his ears.

"Hey, Bradley," the raspy voice of Marty says. "I'm sorry for that call earlier—I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I—It's just…" Here his voice breaks, taking on a desperate edge: "Think what you want of me, but I can't go back to prison. It was Hell, Bradley! Hell! I can't—I won't—I'm a good person, and I mean what I said. You have my blood; you can't pretend we're so different. I need your help—I've gotta get my things in order. Maybe I can leave you kids with something, but I can't…" He trails off, and Edwin wonders if the rest of the message will be pure static, but Marty whispers, "Please, call me back. And don't be so angry. We should talk…one last time."

Edwin's blood freezes in his veins. The last time he saw Brad, he'd been so full of rage he bellowed at the mere mention of Marty's name. He'd looked like a wild animal desperate to kill. He wasn't in the right headspace for a normal conversation—especially not with his father.

"If I ever see him again, I'll wring his neck," Brad told him, trembling with rage. Edwin had stepped back, shocked by the display. Never before had he seen his grandson so overcome, so lost to his own emotions. "I'll make him suffer for what he did."

At the time, Edwin thought these were empty words to blow off steam. Passionate, but not prophetic. He thought Brad's feelings would ebb with time, once Marty got convicted and Lisa got her justice. Now, he darts down the apartment complex stairs and jumps into his car, praying that he will make it in time.

Miles away, unbeknownst to Edwin, an Armstrong stands in an attic below a noose.

Smooth wood of a small stool presses against bare feet, and rough rope wraps around a trembling neck. Through the large window, an oak tree's leaves cast speckled shadows across the dusty floor, which is laced with long-forgotten family trinkets.

There is a pile of photos that feature a woman whose face brings so much pain, she must be hidden away. Child-sized karate belts, from white to blue, hang haphazardly over a faded pink vanity with a broken mirror. An open box, falling apart from age, holds an eggshell-white wedding dress, as lacy and youthful as its blushing bride.

Old pain hides in every corner of this attic, but the golden glow of morning brings it all to light. The world wakes up just as a life falls asleep, its last sight being the peaceful blue sky and the green lands of Olathe.

What a beautiful place to die, they think.

A police car is following him.

Edwin doesn't care.

He hasn't done anything this reckless in decades, not since he was a young man, but Brad is more important to him than any amount of jail time. Brad is this family's future, the perfect son, the child Edwin always imagined when he was a young, miserable child in Italy, neglected by his parents, and dreaming of a better life. Brad is his favorite grandchild, and he knows he's not supposed to think this way, but he can't deny that the idea of losing Brad nearly rips his heart from his chest.

Don't die, don't die, he prays, gripping the wheel in shriveled hands and pushing the gas pedal to the floor, heedless of the blaring sirens chasing him. They're on a long stretch of desert highway, and there are too many trucks for the police car to drive beside him just yet. Edwin weaves in front of an enormous truck carrying countless loads of fruits and vegetables before weaving into the other lane.

Marty's house is nearly a hundred miles away, and who knows how long ago Brad left? The blood on the wall looked fresh, and it was smeared in a wild way. Is that the headspace Brad is in? Is he lost to himself, wild and violent?

Has he already killed Marty?

Worst-case scenarios swirl in his brain so quickly that Edwin misses the truck slamming into his side. The world spins and screams around him, and all he feels is excruciating pain.

When the car finally stops, Edwin's upside down, his bloody face strewn with glass shards and pressing into the pavement. The police siren blares behind him, and a voice calls out: "Are you alright? Sir, can you hear me?"

Edwin can't speak; when he tries, he coughs out a mouthful of blood. He can't see a thing, but he hears men grunting and cars screeching and time goes by so slowly it feels like a dream he once had when he was sinking through tar, suffocating and terrified and utterly helpless.

He's being pulled out from the remnants of his car, but he collapses to the ground like a puppet without strings. Unable to move a muscle, Edwin can only pray. Please, God, don't let this be for nothing. Please save my grandson—my granddaughter—make them okay. Don't let me lose anyone else I love.

He can't think about anything besides his family right now, his misunderstood, damaged Lisa and his strong and righteous Brad, and he prays that they won't die today, that if anyone must die, please let it be him, please, God, be merciful for once—

Every limb in his body screams in pain when he's thrown into an ambulance. What follows is a torturous day full of rushing nurses and screaming scanners and unbearable cacophony and intrusions from hospital workers. Cops ask him questions he can barely answer and he forgets where he is or whether he's even alive or not.

"Please, tell me, where is my granddaughter? Where is my grandson?"

"What's he trying to say? I can't tell."

"Ignore him and focus on the injury."

Perhaps this is Hell. It feels like it when he's woken up for the seventh time by a loud nurse. His body is broken, he can barely speak, and he still feels like someone he loves will die today.

It's late at night when Lisa comes in, her hair frazzled and her eyes frightened. "Grandpa?" She squeaks. "What happened to you?"

He tries to reach out to her, but he's too numb to move. "Lisa," he tries to say, but it comes out as a hoarse groan. He feels like a monster, but Lisa runs to him and touches his frozen hand. Although he can't feel it, he's moved by the concern in his eyes, and a tear trickles down his bruised, swollen face.

"God, what happened to you? I got a call in the middle of class, and I heard you got into an accident—I was so scared I…I…" Lisa hasn't cried since she was a little girl, at least not in front of him, but her walls crumble and she sobs beside his full body cast, covering her face with her fists and struggling to compose herself. Edwin can't remember the last time her turquoise eyes looked at him with anything except resentment. She really does love me, he realizes. He could laugh if he weren't in so much pain—she always screamed about how much she hated him, but now she's crying at the thought of losing him. To think, I would have known this sooner if I'd just gotten into a car accident.

He can't give her any comforting words; only his eyes can move, so he tries to crinkle his eyes to signify that he's happy. After an eternity, she stops crying, and she holds his hand again. He can't feel the wetness of her tears touching his bandages, but he glances down and sees the wet stain spreading. It doesn't matter. He's just glad she's okay.

Does that mean Brad is dead?

Edwin closes his eyes, praying to God that he will be the one to die today. Someone I love will die today. Please, God, don't let it be one of my babies, he prays. If he can die with the knowledge that Brad is alive and Lisa loves him, he will die content. He's lived a long, full life. He switched continents. He fought in a world war. He learned martial arts in a foreign country and shared the Armstrong style with countless pupils whose lives he impacted for the better. He raised Brad into a strong young man—and Lisa's become strong, too, stronger than her namesake and stronger than he ever wanted to realize.

I've done wrong by her, he thinks. If I survive this, I'll be the grandfather she deserves. I'll turn a new leaf.

His pain is unbearable, and he swings between reality and dreams like a blurry pendulum. He dreams that Brad comes to visit, only he's battered and bruised and crying uncontrollably. He dreams that Brad and Lisa embrace for the first time in years, and he dreams that he can talk again.

It takes an excruciating amount of effort, but he looks into Lisa's eyes and speaks.

"I'm proud of you, Lisa."

She trembles at the words and smiles at him, and for once it's genuine instead of forced. "I love you, grandpa," she whispers, and for once, he believes her.

Just like that, the stone of fear in his guts dissipates, even though his loved ones are here with him, safe and sound. He doesn't understand why he woke up with this premonition, or if this is all a dream and he'll wake up to tragedy, but he falls asleep with a smile on his face and the company of his two, precious grandchildren.

The last thought is, If Brad and Lisa are okay, then who died today?

Miles away, Marty Armstrong steps off a stool. It clatters beneath twitching feet. The dusty attic is soundless save for his choking, gasping cries. In a few moments, his body becomes as still as the stool, and the Armstrong home is swallowed by silence.