Page 4 of The Moment He Couldn’t Walk Away

“Bart,” he grunted, hoping the man running up the street wouldn’t stop. He was out of luck, as the elderly local turned to jog at his side.

The octogenarians in this town were harmless and usually meant well, even if they spent most of their time handing out opinions like cookies.

Bart wore a pale blue woolen cap pulled low to his eyebrows and a matching scarf. The locals had tried—tactfully—to tell him to get rid of his shorts, as they revealed way more than anyone wanted to see with their high-cut sides. As yet there had been no success. Winter forced him to put long thermal leggings underneath, which let the town collectively exhale with relief during the colder months.

“It’s freezing out here, Finch, and you’re in a thin long-sleeved T-shirt.”

“I don’t feel the cold, Bart,” he lied. In fact, now that he’d stopped moving, Finch could feel the bite of winter. He’d need to head back soon or risk another headache.

“How are you, really, Finch?”

“Good,” Finch lied, the word coming out as a grunt that should discourage anyone from continuing the conversation.

“Haven’t seen much of you, but now you’re out and about, you can join the walking club. Exercise in small doses is good for post-concussion syndrome, Finch. But take it easy and don’t overdo it.”

He would rather wear one of his mother’s kaftans in a military parade than join the walking group.

“Socializing is important too. Being alone with those thoughts is not healthy,” Bart continued, undeterred by Finch’s lack of response.

I should have stayed home and braved my mother and sisters.

“I’m doing what I need to,” he said, not surprised Bart knew what Finch was dealing with. It was the way in this town; everyone was involved in everyone else’s business.

“I’ll let you know when we are walking next. Now, lots of rest, good food, and water for you until then,” Bart added, ignoring Finch’s general air of pissedoffness.

It wouldn’t take much to trip the man and make it look like an accident, but even at his worst, Finch couldn’t do that to someone he’d known since childhood.

“Bart!”

They both looked toward the Rollaway, the local bar in town, and the large bear of a man approaching.

“Dee needs your help for a minute,” Red Heckler, the owner, called.

“Be right there, Red. You take care now, Finch, and make sure you have good shoes for the walking.”

Bart ran into the Rollaway, and Finch knew why. It took a brave person to refuse Red’s wife, Dee, anything and walk away unscathed.

“Hey, man.” Red wandered up in that slow, easy way he had, and they slapped hands.

The exact opposite of his firebrand of a wife, Red took things in his stride and could hurl a patron out of his bar with one hand and help an old lady across the road with the other. “Colder than my mother-in-law’s heart out here today, and you’re not dressed for the conditions, Finch. Got some mulled wine, if you need it?”

“I’m good, but thanks, Red.”

“Okay, well, offer’s there anytime. Now, I just saved you from a lecture from Bart, so you owe me,” Red said.

His face looked thinner, and now that he was noticing the man and not dwelling on his own problems, Finch could see Red had lost weight under that thick black sweater and jeans.

“You well, Red?”

“Dandy. Been working out and walking because Dee said she wants to keep me around a bit longer, as the kids are too much for her to handle alone, so I have to get fit and eat better.”

“Always good to feel loved,” Finch said.

“Amen. How you doing?” Red asked.

“As you’d expect.”

“So, shitty, then?”