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Chapters (77)
  1. Cover
  2. Title
  3. Also by Silas House
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. Part One
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. Part Two
  27. 1
  28. 2
  29. 3
  30. 4
  31. 5
  32. 6
  33. 7
  34. 8
  35. 9
  36. 10
  37. Part Three
  38. 1
  39. 2
  40. 3
  41. 4
  42. 5
  43. 6
  44. 7
  45. 8
  46. 9
  47. 10
  48. 11
  49. 12
  50. 13
  51. 14
  52. 15
  53. 16
  54. 17
  55. 18
  56. 19
  57. 20
  58. 21
  59. 22
  60. 23
  61. 24
  62. 25
  63. 26
  64. 27
  65. 28
  66. 29
  67. 30
  68. 31
  69. Part Four
  70. 1
  71. 2
  72. 3
  73. Epilogue: The Everything
  74. Acknowledgments
  75. About the Author
  76. About Algonquin
  77. Copyright

Asher steadied himself, palm flat against the green tiles of the wall. “How long would that take?”

“It could take up to a year,” Fisher said. “But we’d really be making a statement—”

“A year? I couldn’t stand that. I couldn’t—I’ve lost my son.”

“It would be worth the wait, though. My ex only sees our children about five days a month and it works out. They know when you love them. They know that—”

“I can’t stand to be away from him that much,” Asher said. “I can’t even stand the thoughts of it.”

“We can appeal, though,” Fisher repeated. “We can get him back. And really, I’ve always thought we’d have to go on up, to the court of appeals, because of the way people think here.”

“I’ve lost my boy!” Asher found the rail on the stairs, stepped down.

“It’ll get easier . . .”

Asher saw himself and Justin walking on the ridge above their house. Asher pointing to the trees, Justin following the sweep of his finger. And then, their feet on the soft soil of the trail, Justin’s small hand finding its way into Asher’s.

Asher stopped on the stair and looked back at Fisher, standing there on the landing as if awaiting something to happen. No, it won’t ever get easier, he thought. Not for me or for him.

“You go home, get some rest, and come in on Monday,” Fisher said, “and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

Asher flew down the stairs, faster and faster until he was almost in a sprint, and then finally he was outside, in the cool air of an April morning, and driving his Jeep home in complete silence, and then there was the lake and his empty trailer.

That evening he walked through the dark woods and squatted down on the rocky bank so he could hear the soft wash of the lake’s small waves supping at the shore. Back at his trailer he warmed up a can of soup. He studied all the postcards that he knew were from his brother, laying them out on the carpet before him as if setting up a game of solitaire. He ran his finger over their shiny fronts, turned them over and read the words once again. He tried to pray, but still he could not. He did research online. He would be quiet, but he would work. He’d plan. He’d drive to Nashville, go over to Opry Mills and buy Justin some new clothes. Go to the bookstore for more information. Educate himself. He’d get the supplies he needed. He knew what he had to do.

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