“Hey, Nate. Your loan application came back today and I’m, well, I’m really sorry, man, but it’s been declined. Without any collateral and no disposable income, it’s pretty unlikely a bank will lend you that type of money.” There was the sound of Jonathan clearing his throat. “Again, I’m really sorry. I hope Josh is doing all right. Give me a call if you want to grab a beer or anything.”

Nate threw his phone down, his chest feeling like it had gone supernova. The phone clattered against the passenger’s side floorboard.

A bubble of self-loathing expanded in his chest. What kind of man was he? He couldn’t provide for his family. And now his son was sick and he couldn’t do shit to save him.

Nate gripped the steering wheel and turned onto Main Street. When he reached the bridge where Robbie had died, he pulled to the side of the road and stared at the cross, remembering Robbie’s last words to him.

You’re gonna be sorry, man.

Nate had been pissed at Robbie for turning him and a bunch of the guys in for cheating on a math test. Nate would probably have detention for the rest of his senior year. That was some thanks after he’d done his best to keep the popular kids off Robbie’s back the last few years. Sometime around ninth grade, Robbie had put on weight, and with his bad skin and stutter, some of Nate’s jock friends had been merciless. Then he’d added fuel to the fire by tattling.

Nate was walking to his locker when he saw Robbie surrounded by a group of jocks. Robbie had called out to him, but Nate looked away, pretending he didn’t see when one of the guys shoved Robbie to the floor. They could kick the shit out of Robbie, Nate had decided. He deserved it.

And they had.

Nate felt a sense of desperation descending on him, an urgent need to do something. He slid a toothpick from the tin in his pocket. He pressed it into the bed of his thumbnail, letting the pain wash over him.

He hated himself for doing this, the weakness, the self-loathing and embarrassment that flooded him afterward, like a teenager caught masturbating. He wished he could stop, but some horrible compulsion told him he deserved to suffer. He hadn’t helped Robbie. He couldn’t help Josh.

Drip, drip, drip. The sound of his blood hitting the seat snapped him back to the present.