Page 5 of Finding Noah

I scrunched my nose as the yucky feeling in my belly grew and grew until I thought I might throw up.

“You're gonna find that bag, and while I'm talking to my friend in there, you're gonna take it and bring it out here. Do you understand?”

I turned my eyes from the house, only to look up at Daddy with big, wide eyes. “You want me to steal?”

Daddy sucked in a deep breath and pressed his lips into a thin little line. I heard something make a clicking sound, and that was when I dropped my eyes to see the shiny black gun in his hand. It looked like the kind I saw in movies or video games sometimes, but those were cool because they were pretend. Just make-believe. This one … this was here. And it didn’t look like make-believe.

My heart thumped and thumped loudly until it felt like it would explode, and I gasped and choked on the air in my lungs.

Why did my daddy have a gun?

“Hey,” Daddy said, and he sounded nice, like the way Mommy or Grandma sounded when I was worried, so I looked up at him. “It's fake, okay? It's just a toy.”

“The gun is pretend?”

“Yeah,” he said with a slow nod of his head. “All pretend. Don't you worry about it. Just get that bag. That's the only thing you gotta worry about.”

“Stealing is wrong though,” I said, relaxing a little bit—but just a little bit because even though Daddy had said the gun was fake, it still looked really, really real.

But maybe … maybe he was right. Maybe it was fake. I hadn't ever seen a real gun before. Mommy didn't even let me have fake guns, let alone a real one. She and Grandma said they were bad and dangerous, even though boys at school had fake guns. Fake guns weren't bad or dangerous because they couldn't hurt anyone.

“Yeah, yeah,” Daddy said. “Stealing is wrong, but this isn't stealing because this guy in here … he stole from me. That bag is mine. Do you understand? I need to get it back. That's your job. Your really important job. And if you do it, I'll get you McDonald's. Remember? That's the deal, right?”

It was true. I had made a deal with Daddy to get my McDonald's, and I still wanted it … but now, I wasn’t sure it was worth it. I could ask Grandma or Grandpa for McDonald’s tomorrow, and if I was good, I knew they’d get it for me. They always did. So, maybe I didn’t need to do this for Daddy. Maybe I could go home instead.

“I-I don't think I'm hungry anymore,” I said, my voice shaking and sounding small. “C-can I j-just—”

I gasped as Daddy grabbed my arm, holding it tight in his grasp.

“You are going to do exactly as I say,” he threatened in a low, angry tone. “You are going to go inside that house, and you are going to get that bag. Now, let's go.”

Daddy tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and covered it with his shirt and jacket. Then he grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the broken door of the scary house. I bit my bottom lip to try and keep myself from crying, and I swallowed over and over, hoping that pukey feeling would leave my belly.

I thought about Mommy.

I thought about all the times Daddy had hurt her.

She hardly ever cried. She never threw up. No matter how many bad things happened to her.

She wouldn't be crying now.

She wouldn't puke.

So, I won't either.

Daddy swung the screen door open and banged loudly on the dirty white door inside with the peeling paint and rusty doorknob. He didn't stop banging until it was finally opened by a skinny man wearing a faded T-shirt and ripped jeans.

The guy’s eyes opened wide as he looked at Daddy, and he said, “Seth, man, I-I was just g-gonna—”

“Where's my money, Tommy?” Daddy asked, pushing the man aside and stepping into the house, dragging me along every step of the way.

Tommy didn't take his eyes off me. I didn't like those eyes. Big, round, and so red. They were creepy and mean. Even meaner than Daddy.

I didn’t think anyone could be meaner than Daddy.

“H-hey, so, uh … what's with the kid?” he asked, looking angrier and angrier by the second.

“Don't you worry about him,” Daddy said. “You worry about getting me my fuckin' money.”