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He’s alive.
He’s alive.
“I thought I frickin’ lost you,” I gasp, my voice thick and gravelly with tears. “They told us you were dead…”
“I’m not dead,” Adam says. “I’m alive.”
A sob catches in my throat. “Say it again.”
“I’m alive.”
“Louder.”
“I’m alive! Ow, damn—I have broken ribs, man. I can’t yell.”
I burst out laughing, tears still running down my face as I climb to my feet. The room is swaying, and my body is shaking, but I know this is real. And I’m going to prove it. I’m going to pull Mom and Dad out of that abyss right now.
“Where the hell is everyone?” I yell through the empty house, feeling possessed as I run around shirtless, covered in tears, Adam laughing on the phone in my hand.
“Jack?” Mom calls through the screen door. She’s out on the deck.
“MOM!” I bolt for the door and plow through it, my hands shaking as I hold out the phone. Dad’s sitting on the railing, staring at me like I’ve truly lost it this time—but he’s the one who’s about to lose it.
“Jack,” Mom says, “what on earth is—”
I feverishly shove the phone into Mom’s hands, and I hear Adam on the other end, saying, “Hi, Mom.”
“Adam?!” Mom screams his name, tears springing to her eyes.
Dad rushes over and kneels on the deck beside her chair, leaning in close to hear through the phone. They’re both shouting over each other, desperate to hear Adam’s voice again but not letting him get a word in edgewise. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and the tears are still coming, making me feel like a wuss—but I don’t care.
He’s alive.
I watch my parents weep and hug each other and talk to my brother, the one they had boxed up and buried. The one I refused to let go of.
The rush of emotion suddenly comes back like a tsunami wave and hits me so hard I feel sick to my stomach—but in a good way. Like my upside-down world just got shaken right side up again. I leave Mom and Dad on the deck, talking to Adam, and stagger across the yard to the split-rail fence, feeling drunk and disoriented.
Breathe, Jack.
I swipe away the leftover tears with my forearm. Inhaling. Exhaling.
He’s alive.
For a few minutes, I just stand here, holding onto the fence.
Eyes shut.
Breathing.
Footsteps come up behind me, Dad’s footsteps. A second later, I feel his big, warm hand clasp firmly on my bare shoulder. It says a hundred things, that hand. And so does mine, as I clap it over top of his and hold on tight.
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
I nod because I have a lump in my throat and can’t even whisper a reply. But I think he knows what I want to say, as I turn and drive my face into his chest, throwing my arms around him—as I break down crying again.
I’m sorry, too.
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