The sun filtered through the leaves above, casting warm dappled light across the playground. Five-year-old Harley knelt in the dirt near the edge of the slide, his small fingers busy sorting through handfuls of wood chips. He examined each one carefully, selecting the largest, flattest pieces, and began constructing a little town of balanced stick huts—tiny homes arranged neatly in rows like a miniature village.

"Hannah, no—baby, be careful!" his mama called, too late.

His baby sister, Hannah, came stomping over in her too-big sneakers with the unsteady bravado of a toddler and toppled the nearest hut with her shoe.

His mama tried to pull her back, but Harley wasn't bothered. "It's okay, Mama," he said easily. "Hanny can squash 'em if she wants."

Then, with a grin, he stood and stomped on one of the huts himself. "See, Hanny! You can knock them all down!"

Hannah squealed with delight, her fine blond hair sticking to her forehead in wispy curls. Harley reached for her hand, small and sticky in his.

"Let's squash 'em together."

The two of them toddled around their mulch metropolis, flattening every little hut until all that remained was a scattered field of wood chips. Afterward, Mama scooped Hannah up while Harley dashed toward the monkey bars.

"Watch me, Mama!" he called, already halfway up the ladder, his voice high and breathless with excitement.

"I'm watchin', darlin'!" she replied, bouncing Hannah gently on her hip and pushing her sunglasses higher up the bridge of her nose. "Show me what you got!"

Harley climbed to the top of the jungle gym, striking a wobbly superhero pose at the summit like he'd seen in his cartoons before leaping off the side and landing in the soft dirt below with a triumphant thump.

"I stuck the landing, right?"

Mama clapped and laughed. "Gold medal, no doubt about it!"

Beaming, Harley sprinted back towards the playground—only to pause halfway when he heard a hiccuping sob.

Hannah had started to fuss, her round face crumpling with a deep frown. Her bottom lip trembled as she prepared to let loose a full-throated wail.

"I got her!" Harley announced confidently.

"Oh yeah?" Mama grinned. "Think you can calm the storm?"

"Easy peasy," Harley said, wiggling his fingers at his sister. "Hey peanut, don't cry! Wanna see me do another superhero jump?"

Hannah's little sob caught in her throat, and her big blue eyes locked on her brother's face. He stuck his tongue out, bouncing around and making silly faces at her. She stopped crying to watch him, fascinated by his antics.

"She loves you so much," Mama said softly, eyes crinkling behind her sunglasses. She settled them on a bench and shifted Hannah into Harley's lap. "Don't you, Hannah Banana?"

Hannah clung to Harley's shirt, pressing a wet kiss to his cheek. His chest puffed out with pride.

"That's 'cause I'm a really good big brother."

"You sure are," Mama said, brushing a hand gently through his sun-warmed hair. "You're the best brother in the world. You know that, baby?"

Harley nodded, grinning wide. Mama gave him a tight squeeze and a kiss on the forehead. It was the most sunshiney, happy day, and Harley didn't want it to end.

But then Mama's phone rang and she glanced at the screen—and her smile faltered.

She hesitated, then swiped to answer. "Mark," she said, her voice suddenly smaller, sharper around the edges.

Harley watched the change in her posture. Her free hand clenched around the slatted wood of the bench. She nodded to whatever the person on the other end was saying, her jaw tightening more with each word.

"No, you don't just get to decide that," she snapped suddenly, loud enough that Harley startled. "I'm getting better."

Harley didn't understand what was being said, but he could tell his mom was upset. Her hand trembled just a little as she ran it over his sister's back.

"They both need you. We need you."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, she blinked up at the sky like the sun was too bright, her eyes watering.

She turned away slightly, voice muffled. "He thinks the world of you," she said, quieter now. "You're being heartless."

Harley looked down at Hannah nestled in his lap and squeezed her tighter.

After a few more strained words, Mama ended the call and pressed the phone to her forehead, taking a long, shaky breath.

"Mama?" Harley asked, worried.

She forced a smile, leaning over to kiss the top of his head. "I'm alright, baby. You ready to go get ice cream?"

Harley nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Ice cream!"

His mom stood, settling his sister on her hip.

"I'll get strawberry," he said, smiling. "You'll get mint chocolate chip. Hanny can taste mine. And we'll get rocky road for dad!"

Mama stilled for a moment, then glanced away. "No, baby. Dad's not at home. But you know what? We can still get rocky road and take it back with us—and you can have it yourself after dinner. How's that sound?"

Harley looked down at his shoes as they walked. Wouldn't dad want to come home if he knew there was ice cream waiting? If Harley knew there was rocky road waiting for him, he'd run back home on the double.

"Let's get it and save it for him," he said quietly.

Mama nodded, but her eyes were sad again.

He didn't know what was wrong but he squeezed her hand tighter all the same.


Six-year-old Harley crouched beside their weather-worn house, where wild flowers had fought their way through the overgrown grass. He sifted through the clover and weeds, selecting the prettiest blooms he could find—soft pinks, butter yellows, and tiny blue blossoms no bigger than his fingernail. He handled them carefully, brushing off dirt, inspecting the petals like a jeweler appraising gems.

It had to be perfect. Mama needed cheering up.

Clutching the uneven bouquet in his small hands, Harley ran up the porch steps, his boots thumping against the wood. He shouldered open the front door and crept into the house, lowering his voice instinctively as he entered the quiet.

Mama was still in bed, even though it was after lunch time. The curtains were drawn, painting the room in dusky shadows. She was curled on her side, one arm cradling her pillow.

Harley tiptoed to her side and held out the bouquet. "Mama," he whispered, "I picked these for you."

She stirred, her eyes cracking open. A tired smile tugged at her lips as she reached out to touch the flowers. "They're beautiful, baby," she said softly, her voice gravelly with sleep. "Thank you."

Harley beamed. "You can put 'em in that glass jar on the windowsill. I washed it out special."

Mama nodded, but didn't move to sit up.

Mama hadn't gotten up much in days. She hadn't made dinner in days either, but Harley was big now. He could take care of himself. And he could take care of his mama.

He backed out of the room, still clutching the flowers, and placed them in the jar himself. He filled it with tap water and set it on the windowsill like she liked, where the light might catch the colors.

Later, he sat at the kitchen table with his crayons spread out around him, his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he drew a picture of a big, lopsided birthday cake. He added a stick figure with yellow curls and labeled it "Hanny," then drew himself beside her, arms stretched wide.

Holding it up proudly, he trotted back to Mama's room and climbed halfway onto the bed. "Can we send this to Hanny and Dad?" he asked.

Her eyes flickered open again, and she smiled—but it was faint, and full of ache. "Sure, baby," she murmured, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "That's real sweet."

She sounded so tired.

Harley padded into the kitchen, dragging a stool over to the counter. He pulled out the last of the sandwich bread and carefully spread peanut butter across two slices, squishing jelly in between and pressing the bread together like Mama had taught him.

He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out the vegetable peeler, careful to avoid the sharp knives it was nestled between. He spent a long time carefully carving the skin off an apple, the peels curling in red spirals into the sink. He made two plates—one with a sandwich and a skinless apple for himself, and another with a sandwich and a shiny, unpeeled apple for Mama.

She didn't touch her food.

That night, he curled up beside her in bed, tiny limbs wrapped around her waist. She held him close, her fingers brushing through his hair. He could feel the gentle shake of her shoulders. When she sniffled and pressed her face into the top of his head, he stayed very still. He didn't say anything. He just held tighter.

"It's just you and me, baby."

Mama had been saying this a lot lately, since Dad had taken Hanny to live far away, starting a new family without them. She'd snuggle up with Harley and say "It's just the two of us, but that's all we need. We're a team."

It used to make Harley happy to hear it. It made him feel like everything was going to be okay. Now it served as a reminder.

Harley was all Mama had.

In the morning, the light was pale and gray. Mama hadn't moved. She was still curled up, breathing softly. Harley slipped out of the covers and shuffled into the kitchen, dragging the stool to the microwave this time.

He pulled down two bowls and poured in packets of instant oatmeal. He added water from the tap, spilling a little on the counter, but he wiped it up with one of the dish towels. The microwave beeped, and he stirred the oatmeal until it stopped steaming. He poured orange juice into two glasses—spilling that too, but cleaning it again.

Mama didn't touch her breakfast.

That was okay. Maybe later.

He went outside, the screen door creaking shut behind him, and picked more flowers.

The morning air was cool and damp. Dew made his feet wet as he crossed the yard barefoot. He sat on the front step for a while, picking at the corner of the porch with his fingernails, his bouquet resting in his lap.

He was lonely. He thought it might be Saturday, but he couldn't be sure because he hadn't been to school all week, and now he'd lost track of the days. He missed his friends. He missed Hanny. He missed Mama even though she was just inside. His whole heart was full of missing, making it feel heavy and sore.

His nose burned, and he sniffled quietly, wiping his face on the sleeve of his t-shirt.

"Hey there, Harley," came a voice from across the field.

Harley looked up to see Old Man Frank, their neighbor, standing by the fence with a pair of work gloves and a shovel resting on his shoulder.

"What you up to, little man?"

Harley shook his head. "Nothin'."

Frank studied him for a moment, his lined face thoughtful. Then he nodded toward his yard. "Well, I'm laying a brick path today. Could use a hand setting the pattern, if you're up for it. I'll fry up some chicken and make lemonade when we're done."

Harley hesitated. Then he stood, set aside the bouquet, and brushed his hands on his jeans. "Okay."

They worked together through the afternoon, kneeling in the dirt and laying bricks side-by-side, arranging them into zig-zags and swoops and little spirals where the ground dipped.

Harley got mud on his knees and under his fingernails, but he smiled when Frank said he had a good eye for design.

When the sun started to dip, Frank brought out a tray with crispy fried chicken, biscuits, and two tall glasses of lemonade that sweated in the heat. They sat on the porch together and ate in comfortable silence, admiring their work.

It wasn't perfect. The bricks wobbled in places and you had to be careful how you walked on it. And it wasn't quite a pathway, as sometimes it veered off into a dead end.

But Frank said that was part of its appeal.


The living room was littered with cereal crumbs, dried grass from someone's boots, and threads from one of the old throw blankets. The vacuum sat dead in the corner like it had given up on the world entirely.

Seven-year-old Harley crouched beside it, brow furrowed and tongue sticking out in concentration. With his tiny fingers, he popped off the cover on the bottom, peering in with the seriousness of a doctor mid-surgery.

"Mama," he called over his shoulder, "I think the belt just came off. It's not broke."

From the kitchen came the sound of a sizzling pan and the clink of glassware. "Is that right?" she called back, amused.

"Yep." He gently eased the black rubber belt back over the wheel, spun it with his fingers, and grinned when the brushes started turning again.

His mama appeared in the doorway, one of her smelly drinks in one hand, "Harley Keener, you are the smartest boy in the whole damn world."

He lit up like a firefly.


Eight-year old Harley popped the side off the toaster and looked inside.

Greg was watching the game, but Harley cleared enough space between the beer cans on the scraped-up coffee table to sit the disassembled toaster. He knelt in front of it, one eye squeezed shut as he poked at the finicky spring inside with the tip of a flathead screwdriver.

"Almost got it," he mumbled, half to himself.

Click.

The lever caught this time, staying down like it was supposed to. He popped a slice of bread in to test it. The toaster made a satisfying whoomp as it locked into place.

"Ha!" he crowed, scrambling to his feet. "Mama! It works!"

She appeared from the hallway, mascara in one hand, looking half-done up for whatever shift she was rushing to. "You fixed the toaster?"

"Yep. It just needed the spring reset."

She crossed the room in two steps and ruffled his hair affectionately, eyes wide with pride. "I'm so lucky to have such a genius little boy! Isn't he smart Greg?"

Greg, the tall, burly man Mama had been dating for months, opened another beer and didn't look up from the game. "It just needed the crumbs cleared out."

Harley ignored that, still grinning. "You want toast, Mama?"

"You better believe it. Make two slices—one for you, one for me."


Nine year old Harley watched as the fan buzzed on the table like a drunk mosquito. Its base wobbled, rattling against the warped floorboards every time the blades spun around. Even turned all the way up, it barely moved air. It had been knocked to floor last night—Harley had heard the crash from bed.

Now, in the quiet of the shed, he unplugged the fan and popped it open. He used a hammer to get the bent metal blades back into shape. Then he unscrewed the compartment to expose the motor. He cleaned the parts and oiled them up and prayed that's all it needed. This fan helped move the cool air from their ancient window unit air conditioner. It would be really hot in the house without it. And its comforting hum helped Harley sleep.

"Baby?" Mama's voice drifted in, hesitant. "You in here?"

Harley didn't answer. He just focused on the fan. The hum of anger in his chest matched the old motor's whine after he turned it back on. His lip curled slightly, just remembering the way Greg had stumbled through the hallway last night, slurring, knocking things over, yelling. Again.

Mama stepped into the shed, watching him from the doorway. "You're such a smart boy," she said gently, offering a smile. "Thank you for fixing that, Harley."

He didn't look at her.

She knelt beside him, reaching out as if to ruffle his hair again, then stopping short. "Don't be like that, baby. Greg didn't mean to knock it over. I told him—he's not gonna drink like that around you anymore."

Harley said nothing. He just stared at the fan blades.

She sighed and kissed the top of his head anyway. "You're such a good boy," she whispered. "Too good."

Harley swallowed hard, blinking fast as he reassembled the fan. The oil on his fingers made the screws slip, but he kept working.


Greg might've been unpleasant, but Brian was bad news. Even after mama kicked him to the curb, the guy lingered like cigarette smoke. And when Harley thought they were finally rid of him, Brian came back to get "his" stuff. It wasn't really his, but Mama was tired of dealing with him, and more than a little scared, too. She let him angrily rifle through the house, yelling at her one last time. She was convinced he would leave them alone once he got it all out of his system.

But Harley was worried because Brian had a key.

Mama didn't think he'd be back. He was moving to Kentucky.

Harley wanted to be sure.

The living room door had a chain lock, but Brian would surely come through the kitchen door.

So Harely had torn through the garage that morning, digging through every dusty bin and crooked drawer, searching for a spare lock or anything he could use to replace the kitchen door hardware. But all he found were rusted screws, old paint cans, and a bent crowbar. Nothing useful.

He'd have to buy a new lock set. He could mow a couple more lawns and be able to buy one in a few days. He'd seen a flyer posted up by the pharmacy—Mrs. Bellamy needed her yard trimmed. But it would take time. Harley wouldn't feel better until he took action.

He needed something—anything—to make the house safer.

So Harley did what he had learned to do when the world gave him scraps: he built something better.

Ten-year-old Harley crouched on the floor of his bedroom with Mark's old soldering iron. He'd scavenged a motion sensor from a busted porch light, pried a few LEDs from an old toy truck, and claimed the buzzer from their dusty, Operation game—all its pieces long missing.

Now those useless pieces were his parts.

He wired the components together on a warped breadboard, jerry-rigged with duct tape and the stubborn determination of a kid who refused to be helpless. It wasn't much—just a rudimentary motion alarm. But it would work. When someone stepped through the kitchen door, the sensor would catch it. The lights would flash, and the buzzer would go off.

It wouldn't stop Brian. But it would wake them up. And that was enough.


Eleven-year-old Harley blew into his hands to warm them, his canvas delivery bag thumping against his hip, still half-full with newspapers. He had one more loop to make on his bike, but his route took him pretty close to his own house halfway through. So, he usually stopped to warm up for a few minutes before going on.

He was still on his bike when he heard it.

Clang.

The unmistakable sound of metal on metal, echoing from inside the garage.

Harley froze.

His breath hitched, stomach twisting. Someone was in there.

His first thought was that Brian might've come back.

Harley's eyes narrowed, and his fear was instantly swallowed by a rising wave of hot anger. The nerve. The absolute nerve of that guy to think he could just waltz back in like he owned the place after the last time.

He dropped his bag on the porch, stomped to the side of the house, and reached behind the old grill where he'd hidden his potato gun.

He gripped it tight and marched back to the garage with fear in his stomach but a fire in his chest.

He shoved the door open. "Freeze!"

The figure inside jolted upright from where he'd been slouched over the workbench. He turned slowly, hands raised in a theatrical surrender.

"You got me," the man said, a crooked smile forming beneath his goatee. "Nice potato gun."

Harley blinked.

Okay. Definitely not Brian.


The garage wasn't much, but it was his space. His tools, his parts, his shelves cluttered with screwdrivers and bolts and a growing collection of salvaged tech. He'd cleared off the old workbench in the corner days ago, just for this.

He lined up the boxes and opened them one by one with a boxcutter he kept stashed under the table.

Inside were the parts Tony had promised in a short text:

"Noticed you've been using a dinosaur.

Parts incoming.

You're smart—figure it out."

Harley grinned as he lifted each piece from the packaging—gleaming and new, not a single scratch on them. A high-end processor, a sleek case with tempered glass sides, a motherboard that looked like something out of a spaceship, RGB fans, RAM sticks, a power supply, and a graphics card that still had the scent of new electronics clinging to it.

There was even a toolkit nestled at the bottom of the box. Red-handled, and engraved faintly on the side: Property of HK.

Harley swallowed hard.

He laid everything out on the bench with reverence, then rolled up his sleeves and got to work. The sun crept across the floor as he slotted the motherboard into place, screwed down the power supply, ran cables neatly through the back of the case. It was peaceful. Focused. The one place he felt fully in control.

He plugged everything in, triple-checked the connections, and finally, hours later, hit the power button.

The fans spun to life with a soft whirrr, lights flaring to a soft blue glow behind the glass panel. The monitor blinked awake. The BIOS screen appeared.

Harley whooped, punching the air.

"I built that," he whispered to himself, pride blooming in his chest.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the finished build—sleek, compact, glowing gently in the dark of the garage. He opened Tony's contact, thumb hovering for a second, then typed:

She's alive! First boot successful. Thanks a bunch Tony

A few seconds later, Tony replied:

That was fast. I'm impressed
Nice work kid.

Harley stared at the message for a long time, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.


The smell of sautéing onions filled the little kitchen, mingling with the tang of crushed tomatoes and garlic simmering low on the stove. Harley stood at the pot, wooden spoon in hand, stirring slowly as steam curled up into his face. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearm freckled and red from a small splash of sauce that had popped at him earlier.

Behind him, his mom chopped basil with smooth, practiced rhythm. Her motions were a little slower than usual, a little more careful, but they still moved around each other like clockwork. She slid past him toward the stove, and he smoothly stepped aside to start slicing on the garlic bread.

It was just the two of them, and they made a good team.

"You're gettin' real good at this," she said with a soft smile, nudging his elbow gently with hers. "Gonna make some girl real happy one day."

Harley's fingers tightened on the spoon. "Uh… yeah. Maybe."

He felt her glance at him sideways, like she was trying to read something in his tone. His stomach flipped.

"Don't sell yourself short, hon. You're a catch." She reached over to ruffle his hair, a little too hard.

Harley flinched before he could stop himself, jerking back when her hand grazed his sore ear.

Her expression shifted instantly. The knife clinked softly against the cutting board as she set it down, arms folding around herself like she needed to hold something together.

"Harley…" she said slowly, voice husky. "Baby, I'm sorry."

He shook his head, staring into the bubbling sauce like he could disappear inside it. His shoulders hunched.

"You got nothin' to be sorry for," he muttered.

She bit her lip, red lipstick slightly smeared at the corners. Her eyes looked glassy in the overhead light. She looked like she wanted to say something more—but it never quite came. Instead, she just whispered, "It won't happen again."

Harley swallowed thickly. The sauce gurgled behind the silence.

She reached out again, softer this time, brushing his overgrown bangs out of his eyes, the way she used to when he was little. Her fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.

"I'm supposed to keep you safe," she said, the words cracking on the edges. "And I won't let a man push you around like that again. Ever."

"Yeah," he said finally, voice small. "Okay."

"It's just you and me, again baby."

Harley nodded.

He heard the quiet clink of glass against the countertop, the soft glug-glug of liquor poured into a lowball. Her hand shook just slightly as she lifted the glass to her lips.

Harley wilted.


Harley slammed the kitchen screen door shut behind him, his backpack already half-off his shoulder, bouncing against his hip as he called out—

"Mom? Aren't you up?" He tossed his things onto the table and continued to shout over his shoulder. "I thought you had the evening shift today."

He knew she'd worked late last night, but she should be up by now. Harley peered in the fridge. She hadn't packed a lunch. He sighed as he started pulling things out of the fridge, hastily preparing a sandwich, chips, and bottle of water.

"Mom!"

No answer.

Harley stuffed everything into a plastic grocery bag and shoved it back in the fridge. The house was quiet. Harley frowned and rounded the corner into the living room.

His breath caught.

She was crumpled on the couch, deathly still. One arm dangled limply off the edge of the cushion. Her uniform from last night was wrinkled and stained. Her skin was pale and slick with sweat. Her hair stuck to her face in damp clumps, and the sour smell in the room turned Harley's stomach. She'd thrown up. It was on her shirt, on the floor, on the blanket tangled around her legs.

His heart lurched into his throat.

"Mama?"

He rushed to her side, dropping to his knees and grabbing her shoulder. She didn't stir.

"Mama, wake up. Please—c'mon." His voice cracked. He shook her gently at first, then harder. "You gotta wake up now, alright?"

Nothing.

Panic surged through him, cold and dizzying. "No, no, no—please—Mama!"

She wasn't dead—she couldn't be—he could still feel the rise and fall of her chest, shallow as it was. Her skin felt clammy under his fingers. Harley wiped a trembling hand over his face and looked around like the walls might offer a solution. The bathroom was too far, and he wasn't strong enough to lift her into the tub. But he had to do something.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, I got you."

He half-dragged, half-carried her toward the front door, straining with every ounce of strength he had. Her feet thudded against the floor behind them. The screen door creaked as he propped it open with his foot, and then they were out on the porch, in the open air.

It was cooler outside. The breeze cooled the sweat on his forehead and lifted the sour smell from her clothes. Harley eased her down onto the wooden porch boards, panting, his arms shaking.

"Hold on, Mama," he begged, crouching beside her.

He ran back inside and grabbed the chipped plastic mixing bowl from the sink—filled it at the tap, hands shaking so badly the water sloshed over the sides—and rushed back out.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice thick with tears, "I'm sorry—I just need you to wake up."

He poured the cold water over her head.

She gasped.

Harley nearly collapsed with relief.

"Mama!" he cried, scrambling to steady her as she sputtered and flinched. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, dazed. "Mama, you're okay. You're gonna be okay."

She blinked slowly, grimacing as she realized she was soaked and sitting in the open air. "Harley…?"

He was crying now, quietly, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "You scared me. I didn't know if—if you were gonna wake up."

She reached up weakly, brushing his cheek. Her hand was shaking. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

Harley wrapped his arms around her and held on tight, even as she sagged against him. "It's okay. I got you. I got you, Mama."


The shouting had started again.

Harley tried to ignore it, eyes fixed on the lined paper in his lap. He sat hunched on the porch steps, his pen moving slowly as he scratched out the final sentences of his English essay. The evening air was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to his skin and made the porch boards sweat beneath him.

His mom's voice rose in sharp, biting waves from inside the house—angry, frantic. Mike's voice followed, lower but louder, thick with irritation.

Harley's jaw tensed.

He trusted Mike. Not to be great—but to at least not be violent. That was the bar these days. And so far, Mike hadn't hit anyone. Mike wasn't the worst man to come through their door. Not by a long shot. So Harley figured it was safe enough to leave them to it while he tried to get his homework done.

Harley flipped to a new page in his notebook, trying to tune it all out. He couldn't fully retreat to his garage. He had to at least make sure she was okay.

So he tried his best to get his work done. His grades had never been stellar, but he'd been trying harder lately. Putting in the work. He wanted… something more. Something better. He was in high school now. He had to take this seriously.

Inside, voices rose again, sharp and angry.

The screen door slammed open and Mike stormed out, cursing under his breath and dragging a beat-up duffel bag over his shoulder. His face was red with anger, jaw clenched tight. He didn't even glance at Harley.

"Good luck, kid," he muttered as he stomped down the porch steps, letting the screen slam behind him.

Harley watched the taillights of Mike's car disappear down the road.

The silence that followed should have been a relief, but his mom never dealt with breakups well. He was almost afraid to go inside and see how she was holding up.

He pushed himself to his feet, still clutching his notebook, and stepped inside. She was standing in front of the mirror in the hallway, applying lipstick with one hand and smoothing her hair with the other.

"Where are you going?" Harley asked quietly.

She didn't look at him. "Out. I need to get out for a bit."

"Mom, please don't." He pleaded softly.

She turned to him, frowning. "I'm not going to have you policing my decisions too, Harley. I'm your mother."

Harley chewed his lips and watched her in silence.

"I need a break, Harley. A break from all of this." She gestured unhappily all around her. Then she grabbed her purse and left, the screen door shutting behind her.

The sound of the door closing was gentler than Mike's, but it stung far more.

She didn't come back that night.

Harley didn't sleep much. He kept expecting to hear the creak of the door, the shuffle of her keys, her voice calling for him in that half-hearted way she did when she came home late. But it never came.

It wasn't until the next evening, as Harley was helping Frank reroute his downspout and set up a rain barrel collection system for his roof, that he saw their car come down the long driveway. Harley's heart skipped a beat in relief.

"You'd better get going." Frank nodded to Harley's house.

Harley shook his head slowly as he watched his mom struggle out of the car and then stumble into the house. His cheeks burned, but he knew Frank had witnessed far worse over the years.

"I'll help you finish this first."


The garage was quiet, except for the soft buzz of Harley's soldering iron and the low hum of a box fan he'd rigged up to push stale air out the back window. The light overhead flickered once, and Harley scowled, making a mental note to check the wiring tomorrow.

His stomach growled.

With a sigh, Harley set his project down and wiped his hands on a rag. Kyle was over at the house, so Harley had been hiding out all day in the garage. He hadn't eaten since that morning. He'd have to venture into the kitchen at some point. Might as well be now.

He left his garage and stepped quietly through the back door and into the dim kitchen, flicking the light on. The fridge creaked open and Harley pulled out a plastic container, popping the lid to make sure it hadn't gone bad.

It was some kind of casserole. Maybe from Frank. Probably from Frank. His mom hadn't cooked in over a week, and Harley was too busy with sophomore year to cook much of anything. Really, he just didn't want to put in any effort if Kyle was going to eat it, too.

As he turned to put it in the microwave, a voice slithered out of the dim living room.

"Well, look who crawled out of the cave."

Harley stilled.

Kyle sat on the recliner like he owned the place, beer in one hand, TV remote in the other, his eyes half-lidded and mean. Harley didn't respond. He stabbed a fork into the cold food and kept moving.

"You only come out when you're hungry, huh?" Kyle smirked.

Harley's grip tightened on the fork.

"You know, your mama spoils you. Still got a roof over your head, and for what? You don't bring in a dime. Lazy, just like your—"

"Don't," Harley snapped, spinning on his heel. "Don't talk about my mom like you know anything."

Kyle raised his eyebrows, mock-innocent. "I live here, don't I?"

Not for long, Harley thought. But he bit his tongue. There was no point in feeding the fire.

He didn't even bother microwaving the food now. Just grabbed his plate and stalked upstairs.

His mom's bedroom door hung half open, the dim lamp casting a weak glow over rumpled blankets and a cluttered nightstand. She was curled under the sheets, unmoving, her face slack and makeup smudged beneath her eyes

"Mom?" Harley's voice was soft, but urgent.

No response.

He crossed the room quickly and set the plate down beside her. "Hey, wake up."

She blinked, confused, and her eyes focused. "Hey, baby," she slurred, blinking slow. "You eat somethin'? I was gonna… make dinner…"

Harley's heart hammered in his chest. Her pupils were pinpricks. Her breath smelled like wine. A half-empty bottle sat on the floor beside the bed, and on the nightstand—there it was. A prescription bottle that definitely wasn't hers.

He grabbed the bottle and read the label. Painkillers.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he whispered, voice trembling. "Mom, you can't mix this stuff with alcohol! You know that!"

She gave a weak shrug. "Just wanted to take the edge off."

Harley backed up, fists clenched, breath shaky. "You're gonna die," he whispered. "You mix these together and one night you'll just not wake up."

"Don't be dramatic," she mumbled, turning her face into the pillow.

"I'm not!" he shouted, then winced, his voice ragged. He lowered it quickly. "Jesus… do you think this is normal?"

He gestured toward the pill bottle. "Where did you even get these? Kyle?"

She didn't answer. Just closed her eyes.

Harley stood there, caught between wanting to scream and wanting to cry.

Instead, he replaced the lukewarm water in her glass with fresh from the bathroom sink, then picked up the pill bottle and slid it into his hoodie pocket. She'd never see it again. He tucked the blanket gently around her shoulders, adjusting it with shaking hands.

Then he backed away and closed the door behind him.

In the hallway, Harley leaned against the wall and exhaled shakily, his fingers clenched around the pill bottle. The plastic creaked in his hard grip.

Kyle would be gone soon. They always left—eventually. But this time, the damage didn't feel like it would leave with him.