“I’m sorry, and I know it sucks, but I’m kind of jealous of your mom. I wish my mom had been able to do that, to shove a big stack of papers right in my dad’s face and be like hit the bricks, motherfucker. I think she’d be happier. We’d all be happier. He still would have left. He’d still have that other kid. But it would have been so sweet.”

“I really don’t want her to do it,” Zeke admitted.

“I know. I mean, I want her to do it, but I know why you wouldn’t.”

“He hasn’t called once,” he said. “Or, no, I mean, I think he’s calling, but he hasn’t asked to talk to me.”

“What an idiot. But, like, if your mom leaves him, will you guys stay here?”

“I don’t know. My mom hasn’t said anything about it. She doesn’t say anything. She just plays music and stares at the wall.”

“If you stayed, you’d be in school with me. Nothing would have to end, you know?”

“Yeah,” he replied, but I could tell that it made him sad to think about it. I mean, who would want to go to school at Coalfield High?

“I don’t really have friends,” I finally said.

“I know,” he replied. “You’ve told me. I mean, I have some friends.”

We were quiet for a minute, and then he added, “Even if I go back to Memphis, we’ll still be friends, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I hope so.”

A FEW DAYS LATER, LYLE TAWWATER DIED. HE FELL OFF THE water tower, where he had been climbing the ladder in order to put up posters at the top. Hobart told us about it, because he had been there when the police responded to a call from someone who found Lyle while they were walking their dog that morning. He said Lyle was folded up, broken, and there were about a dozen copies of the poster scattered around him. Hobart was as sad as I’d ever seen him. “That poor kid,” he finally said.

“It’s awful,” my mom said, softening to him, holding his hand.