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Goooooooood morning, Freshwater, West Virginia. This is your host John Gallagher speaking. Hope y'all are doing well this Friday. A quick reminder before getting started on today's broadcast. Whether you're getting ready to head out to your 9-5, or you're a young'un headed back to school, do remember to grab a jacket today. It's gon' be pouring out there. Drivers, you make sure to be careful too. From the look of those skies, we're in for a whole day of storming. Brr!

Onto what's new 'round town. Recently there's been extremely peculiar activity going on south of Main Street. Yesterday we in the studio reported that Old Doreen Weber, who'd been bedridden for some time, looked about ready to go on home to Christ any day now. Well, would you believe the old lady's come back from the brink? At least, that's the story her kin is telling. They say just when they thought she was gone for good, she sprung up full of life and fight in her. Tried to claw her son's face off—and almost succeeded, too.

Hard to believe, folks. I myself would've thought the whole family'd gone plumb crazy if Dale wasn't down there yesterday evening. She took a big bite out of Edgar Jr, a nasty one—we've got photographs to prove it. Right now the Webers are keeping her locked in her bedroom because there don't seem to be no other way to calm her down, and the Campbells are giving them a hand. Anyone else wanna contribute, feel free. Edgar and his family would much appreciate it.

Dr. Murphy is set to take a look at her this afternoon though, so I believe whatever this is will sort itself out. Maybe she's got a year more in her, God willing. Now, onto our Morning Drive song list…

Louis, Friday, 7:48 AM

"Look at that," I said, on my desk like it was the Queen's throne. "It's the first week of school, and I haven't been late to class a single day. This is gonna be my best year yet."

Marlon turned away from the rain-specked window with a snort. "You say that every year. And then you don't last longer than a week."

I held my hand to my chest, aghast. "Why don't you believe in me?"

"I believe in you not lasting longer than a week. Eight days, tops."

"Marlon, I'm not sure if you're aware, but friends are supposed to be each other's cheerleaders. Right now, you're not cheerleading, you're downing."

"I'm not downing, I'm keeping your head out of your ass. Like a good friend."

I was about to argue that, but then Mr. Prosser walked through the door, and all talk in the classroom evaporated. He stopped and looked at me. I was still sitting on my desk.

Awkwardly, I got back in my chair, but he was still frowning at me, all the way to his desk. I had the unfortunate pleasure of being right in front of him. Not by choice, of course; I could walk to the other end of the world and that still wouldn't be far enough away from this guy for me. It was just that, well, my reputation preceded me coming into this class, so Prosser positioned me as close to himself as possible, where I was very much at risk of being caught in The Spray Zone. Because of this, I've been in no rush to get in trouble and be yelled at, which I guess is what he wanted.

Prosser's eyes narrowed. His sharp Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, then he turned to look at the rest of the room.

"Open your notebooks."

There was a rush of papers and movement. Meanwhile Prosser turned to the whiteboard and started drawing a number line. I fished out my pencil and drew a wonky line and labeled the seven notches he'd put on them. 3, 2, 1, 0, -1, -2, -3. Reminded me of a joke I made on our first day. It was harmless, just 'hey, what do we need negative numbers for? to count how much stuff we don't have?' I wasn't even that loud but Prosser heard me anyway—even past Simeon and Mitch talking about the nudie mags they swiped from Mr. Graham—and he gave me this stare like he was trying to eye-laser me, which, if it was possible, I would totally believe he was.

That was what Marlon and his smugness didn't understand. If I breathed wrong around Prosser, I'd probably get detention. So, I had to be on my best behavior.

Outside, the rain picked up, pelting the glass of the windows. Prosser was writing math problems now. -3 - (-1).

I held back a snort. If you took away nothing from nothing, how much nothing would you have left?

Oh, man. I have a curse, you see. Whenever I think of something funny, I have to share it. Personally I don't like to think of it as a curse, more like a blessing, but I just so happened to be attending Ericson's Boarding School for "Troubled Youth"—where blessings go to die.

A wadded up piece of paper grazed my dreads and landed on the desk. I checked to see if Prosser had seen, then opened it to find Marlon's chicken scratch.

dude you can see his toupee falling off

I checked and allowed myself a snigger, but after that, I wrote back telling him to knock off the notes. I was trying to be a Responsible Student, and so he needed to take his bad influence elsewhere. And I added in the joke because might as well now that I had the chance.

The next time Prosser turned his back to us, I slipped the paper over my shoulder and busied myself with my notes.

It came back quickly.

you're still going with this thing? why?

Because, I wrote, irritated, it's my ass if Prosser catches us. And if I have to spend another afternoon in detention cleaning out Baker's gross fucking desk, you're joining him on my hitlist.

Then I turned and threw it in his stupid face.

Marlon squawked so loudly that the entire class stared at him. Not Prosser, though. Prosser looked at me.

I gave him my most angelic smile.

His face folded itself into an even deeper scowl than usual, and he dismissively told Marlon off before returning to the board.

I'm no crook, but there is something thrilling about getting away with a crime. Still, I tried to get back to my notes, for real this time. If we kept messing around, my luck would eventually run out. Then I wouldn't even have Marlon to blame for it.

Fortunately, I wouldn't have to worry about that. Marlon, like a good friend, had me covered.

The ball of paper smacked me in the head and I instinctively whispered "hey!" and Prosser must've been ready for it because he about-faced and yelled "Washington!" and oh God was I in The Spray Zone.

"Yes Mr. P?" I said, cringing at the wetness on my skin.

"Firstly, it's Mr. Prosser to you. Secondly, you seem to have delusions of what you can and cannot get away with in this class."

"Oh no, not me, sir. I'm a changed man, honest."

Behind me the class laughed, Marlon loudest of all. Ooh, he was gonna get it later.

"Well aren't you a joker? It's a shame I'm not one for fool comedy."

Prosser bent to pick up the paper Marlon had tossed and opened it. "Well, well, well," he said, and my heart sank.

"Why doesn't Mr. Washington come up and read some of these choice comments out loud so we may all hear and appreciate his wit?"

I stood. All the feeling in my body seemed to have vanished. Prosser gleefully handed me the paper as I came to the front, and the sweat in my hands started soaking into it. The rest of the class gaped at me like fish.

"Read the top one," Prosser said.

I did. Some kids snickered, but Prosser's glare shut them up.

"You know what I think is your problem, Washington?" he said.

"My youthful energy?"

"It's that you were born in this generation. This godless generation where children are brought up to be tyrants, allowed to do as they see fit. It's corrupted your developing mind."

Oh. Well, here it comes.

Prosser turned to the rest of the class. "When I was growing up," he started and every kid rolled their eyes, "we were not permitted to be so unruly. Back then discipline was valued in society. Do you know how?"

There was an empty silence as everyone realized he was really asking a question. Prosser faced me again, and his thin lips drew back into a smile so evil it felt like he would open them at any moment to reveal rows of shark teeth.

"Let me paint you a picture. My boyhood school kept a closet full of the finest, springiest strips of oak wood. Thin ones, that made an audible swishing sound when you cracked them. If we stole something or talked back or slandered the faculty, our teacher wouldn't say a word or lift a finger—no! He would just walk out of the classroom and down the hall all the way to the closet door."

This guy loved being long-winded. Like, do we have to do this whole song-and-dance? Could we not just skip to the detention part? Why do teachers think we care about that time they got traumatized in school?

But I dunno, the guy was giving me a really creepy smile. A tiny, miniscule, infinitesimal part of me buried deep, deep, deep inside wondered, was this more than just lecturing?

"I've talked to the headmaster, and he agrees with me that there is a sore lack of discipline in you students. Especially in you, Louis. I know your parents in particular must have… struggled to raise you right, but I don't blame them. That's why you're here."

"Come." He gestured a hand. "That paper is all the evidence I need."

"Hey, come on," I said, and I sounded a lot more nervous than I expected. "We were just passing notes. Just give me detention already."

"You brazenly insulted a teacher. An authority. Imagine if you were to get a job and do the same to your boss. Class, what do you think would happen to Louis if he did the same thing to an employer?"

They all just looked at each other. No one really wanted to say anything. Eventually, Mitch answered kind of uncertainly, "he'd be fired?"

"Yes. And if he's fired, he won't get paid anymore. And if he won't get paid anymore, he won't have money for a house, or food. It could very well lead to him becoming homeless, all because he never learned to respect authority." He came back to me, chin out—or at least it would be if he had one. "Young men like you are already so prone to falling down that path. It's a vicious cycle, but we're going to put a stop to it."

"What do you mean 'put a stop to it'?" But I already knew what he meant, just by the look on his face.

I stepped back. "You're not allowed to do that. That has to be against the law."

"I was tasked with doing whatever it takes to turn you into a productive member of society. I've determined this is it."

The stare the class was giving me was almost unbearable. I inched back again, and my elbow grazed the cold whiteboard.

"Sir?"

All heads in the room turned to Marlon. His raised hand sank a little, then went to scratch his uber-short blond hair. He rose, rolling up one of the wrinkled sleeves of his uniform that had slid down to his wrist. "That wasn't Louis. Or at least it wasn't all Louis. He was passing notes with me, sure, but the insults? The toupee thing? That was me. I wrote that."

Prosser blinked at him. His eyes pingponged between Marlon and me.

"Then you both come with me," he said. He kind of seemed flustered. "This doesn't change anything."

"Well, sure," Marlon said. He came over to stand next to me. "I just thought I should turn myself in. I mean if Louis's NYC big shot parents sucked so much at raising him, then my small town heroin addict dad must have fucked me up. Right?"

Prosser gave him the meanest, coldest, most poisonous look I have ever seen on a human being. It was like he was trying to pour the acid in his veins into Marlon's eyes.

He sucked in his lips and walked to the door. From the thunk of his shoe heels on the floor, you could tell there was a lot he wanted to say.

Marlon nudged me with his shoulder. "Welp, time to get our asses beat."

Despite everything, I grinned. "Only if you go first."

"We'll flip a coin."

We followed Prosser out the door, and behind us the class exploded into whispers.

Ericson's answer was a firm 'no'. Prosser's already-thin face wrinkled in a way that looked like a vacuum cleaner had sucked the air out of him, and he tried a bunch of excuses about how it was just a paddle to the hand and how it barely meant anything but also how if he wasn't allowed to hit us our lives would be ruined. But Ericson wasn't having it.

"If you absolutely believe this must be done to avoid disaster, as you keep insisting," he said, "then you must also be willing to shoulder the burden of the inevitable lawsuits, mustn't you? And if that is so, why do you need my permission?" At that, Prosser's mouth fell glumly shut.

Made me feel relieved, embarrassingly enough. There's no way he could have gotten away with it, I'm pretty sure it's illegal, so I don't know why I took him so seriously. Still, if there was one good thing about this whole mess, it was getting to see Prosser struggle to make his case. He didn't seem like such a big deal anymore.

We didn't get off scot-free though. Three-day detention, but that I could handle just fine. Weirdly enough, not with Baker, like usual, but with Charlie, one of the school's janitors. Or I guess janitor, singular—the other guy hadn't been around for a while.

He led us to the belltower where there were a bunch of planks and jars of nails and two hammers beside the staircase. Our task was to replace certain stairs because it always sounded like some were one wrong step away from collapsing. So we untucked our shirts, tossed our ties and got started prying twisted nails out of the wood termites had been happily munching on.

"So glad this school that's supposed to teach us how to behave is deciding to use us for free labor instead," I said.

"Tell me about it. I left home so I wouldn't have to do that anymore," Marlon said. He turned around to Charlie, who leaned against the wall lighting himself a blunt. "Hey, what happened to the old guy?"

He coughed out puffs of smoke. "Quit."

I groaned, "just great." Marlon gave a low whistle and went back to the nails in the board.

We worked up the stairs. The last of the Prosser debacle faded from my mind, bringing the sheer suckiness of this 'detention' to the forefront. While my complaining grew and branched out to include everything else I hated about this hellhole of a school, Marlon's shrank to 'uh-huh', 'totally', and 'yup'. It started annoying me on the second-to-last step.

I looked up. "You're not even listening to me anymore."

"You just figured that out?" he said through the nails he was holding in his mouth.

This kind of annoyed me, so I said, "well it took me a while because I have to focus on this stupid chore." I hammered a nail to prove a point.

"Exactly," he said. "You should focus on it. AKA, not talk."

"Not talk?"

"Challenging for you, I know."

"You can't just take this silently. This place is a scam! They're exploiting us and our parents."

"Duh. Stop whining."

"No way. I once saw a poster of some very insightful words that spoke to me. Do you want to know what they said?"

He took a nail out of his mouth. "No."

"They said 'Silence equals Death'. That's what you're doing by staying quiet. You're choosing to die."

Marlon sighed. "I wish you cared half as much about just finishing this stupid job. We still have to repaint the stairs and you're not even done with that nail yet."

"I'll get to it, I'll get to it." I swung at the nail and caught the edge of my thumb. Yelling, I dropped the hammer and it tumbled over the stairs and to the ground floor with a dull thud. Charlie didn't even react.

"Bro, are you okay?" Marlon said. I winced and took a look at my thumb. There was a split near my fingernail rapidly turning red.

"Is it bad?"

"Dunno," Marlon said.

"I should go see Ms. Martin, just in case."

"Yeah but…" The corner of Marlon's mouth tightened. "I guess the infirmary's not super far. Shouldn't take you long."

I hurried down the stairs to the door. Charlie didn't even look at me, but he did say, like a total loony, "who yelled?" I left the belltower without telling him where I was going. He'd never rat us out after we saw him get high—that was our agreement.

The infirmary was behind the admin building, so I ran across a stretch of green grass still wet with rain to reach it. There were a bunch of rooms in there, but I knew Ms. Martin liked to take patients in the big medical bay where her office was. Good thing, too. It was just a hallway from the entrance. The front had a wide window so even someone on the far end of the hall could see the clean white lights bouncing off the wall tiles and the rows of beds with curtains standing beside them. The door was already a little open, so I just pushed inside with my shoulder and called for Ms. Martin.

Coach was reading a magazine in a chair near the door. When he saw me, it was an instant frown. I realized I should probably have my excuse ready to go so I raised my thumb. "I hurt myself hammering something. Is Ms. Martin here?"

His caterpillar mustache ruffled. "Hammering what?"

"Detention stuff. Ask Charlie. I mean, Mr. Burns."

"Uh-huh." He frowned but went back to his magazine. Seemed like I had escaped suspicion. Not wanting to push things, I dashed over to the office tucked in the far corner of the infirmary. There was some other guy sitting on the bed next to it but he had his back to me so I ignored him and knocked.

"Spencer?" She said. I frowned. Who's Spencer? When she opened the door, she jumped a little. "Oh, Louis. I wasn't expecting you."

"Hope this isn't a bad time. I kind of had an accident." I raised my thumb to make my point.

She took it in her own hand carefully, but I still winced. "What happened?"

I explained and she directed me to sit in a bed, then ducked right back into her office. I nursed my thumb until then; the split near the fingernail was starting to bleed. The pain came in waves and I braced for each one, then blew on it in the intervals. No idea if that helped, but it felt like it did.

The bed to my right squeaked, and that reminded me of the stranger's existence. The guy's head was sagged down and his grip was tight around his arm, but it didn't seem like he was in pain. A plaid button down covered his huge frame and even huger shoulders, paired with rugged looking jeans that creased heavily down the length of his calves and into boots with soles so thick they looked like they could crush concrete if you stomped hard enough. I've always wanted to wear ones like that.

The man noticed I was looking and cracked a smile through his straw-like beard hair. "Well hey there, little man."

"'Sup. You're a lumberjack or something?"

He laughed. "A lumberjack? What gave you that idea?"

"Your clothes."

He looked over himself. "I guess now I do see it. But naw. Nothing but a trucker, little old me."

I swung around to face him. "Even better. Truckers are way cool. What's it like driving an eighteen-wheeler?"

He scratched his beard. "Boring, mostly."

I deflated. "Aw."

His bushy brows jumped and he hastily added, "that's just 'cause I done it so much. And let me tell you, it sure ain't boring when some damn idiot on the highway's made it his mission to try and kill both you and him." He shook his head with a chuckle, then shot Coach a concerned look. "Uh, I can say 'damn' around him, right?"

Coach shrugged without bothering to look up from his magazine. "They've said worse."

"Sounds sick," I said. "But why are you here then? Shouldn't you be driving cross-country?"

"I came to deliver supplies to your school, but my arm was bothering me so I thought I'd check in with your nurse before I leave."

Ms. Martin came out of the office with a tray of stuff she put next to the trucker, then came over to me. She took my thumb and started applying this stinging liquid dabbed on a cotton ball. I craned my head past her to meet the trucker's gaze. "What happened to your arm?"

"Got in a fight with some homeless guy. Crazy sonuvabitch chomped me while I was at a gas station down South. I knocked his jaw loose, but he wouldn't quit so I had to get out of there." He sighed. "Damn thing's probably infected."

"Sounds rough. I'm just here for hitting my thumb with a hammer."

"Well, different battles leave different battle scars."

Ms. Martin let my thumb go. It was wrapped in a tan bandage now. I wiggled it around thoughtfully. "I hope it leaves an actual scar. That would be cool."

"Me too. The street cred I'd get off that might make this whole detour worth something. Could show it to the ladies like, hey," he said, deepening his voice, " like my scar, baby? I got it from protecting a gas station from some thug. "

Ms. Martin, who was at the tray now, drew back with a barely-concealed smile. "I thought you said there was nobody else there."

The trucker rubbed the back of his neck. "A little embellishment never hurt nobody."

She shook her head. "If you insist. I'm going to have to see your arm now."

He made a show of acting annoyed, then rolled up the sleeve of his arm. Ms. Martin pulled it out to get a better look and I was finally able to see the bite.

When he told me he got bitten by a dude, I expected the bite to be just teeth marks that were maybe kind of red against his white skin. So I was shocked to see blood. Blood inside the teeth marks—more gashes than marks—clumped so closely it looked black. Ms. Martin moved her hands this way and that and the trucker's temples flexed and let veins show. Her gloved finger trailed over a lip of flesh, it flicked back and the trucker winced.

I grimaced. "I know," the trucker said, frowning at his arm. "God knows what that asshole's been putting in his mouth." His eyebrows shot up, and he winced at me. "Uh, sorry. Don't say that word."

"How does it feel?" Ms. Martin said, moving her thumbs around the wound.

He sucked air through his teeth. "Hot. Real hot."

She hummed. "And how do you feel in general?"

He put a hand on his forehead. "I feel kinda tired. Might not be anything noteworthy. Did have a coke a few hours ago. Maybe I'm crashing."

"Maybe, but I wouldn't take the chance. If it won't disrupt you too much, I think you should stay here for the night.

"Won't be much of a bother. I don't got no new jobs waiting for me according to my boss. Logistical issues, apparently."

"That's good, then. Do you need anything? I can drop by the cafeteria if you're hungry."

"No, not hungry. Although…" He made a face. "Do you have any water? I'm a little thirsty."

Ms. Martin nodded and walked back to her office.

I watched her go, then said, "guess I should be going now that my thumb's taken care of."

"School ain't over?"

"It is, but I have to finish my detention."

"Detention?" He sounded shocked, but there was a kind of delight in his eyes that made me think he wasn't judging me. "I'd never take you for the misbehaving type."

"Well," said Coach, though he still didn't look up, "the phrase 'don't judge a book by its cover' has been a popular adage for hundreds of years."

"When I was your age I basically lived in detention, so I'm in no place to act all high and mighty," the trucker said. "Anyway, you best get going then. Don't wanna get in any more trouble now."

I hopped off the bed and made it to the door, then froze, before saying, "will you still be here tomorrow?"

"I don't know, nurse," the trucker called out to Ms. Martin, "when do you think I can leave?"

"Hopefully as soon as possible. If it's tomorrow, then that's that."

"There's your answer, little man. Stop by when you can, 'kay?"

"Now back to detention you go," said Coach.

I groaned and pulled open the door. Before I left though I caught the trucker's smiling brown eyes one last time and gave him a wave. He nodded and waved back.

The sky was getting dark when I went back to the belltower. Charlie was still beside the door. His eyes were a deep red now, and he had on earbuds and was listening to music on an iPod—some rock song I didn't care about.

"What, you just decide to go for a full check-up?" Marlon asked.

I shrugged. "There was someone else she had to attend to. Did you finish?"

"Like hell I'm doing all of this by myself."

I groaned. "We could've been done before nightfall, but no, you want to be petty even though it's your fault we're here at all."

"Just pick up the stupid bucket."