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Back Surrender Your Sons Save as PDF
Chapters (43)
  1. Author’s Note with Content Warnings
  2. CHAPTER ONE
  3. CHAPTER TWO
  4. CHAPTER THREE
  5. CHAPTER FOUR
  6. CHAPTER FIVE
  7. CHAPTER SIX
  8. CHAPTER SEVEN
  9. CHAPTER EIGHT
  10. CHAPTER NINE
  11. CHAPTER TEN
  12. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  13. CHAPTER TWELVE
  14. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  15. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  16. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  17. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  18. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  19. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  20. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  21. CHAPTER TWENTY
  22. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  23. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  31. CHAPTER THIRTY
  32. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  33. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  34. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  35. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  36. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
  41. CHAPTER FORTY
  42. EPILOGUE
  43. Acknowledgments

Another smile rises on the Reverend’s face. This one isn’t sinister—it shaves thirty years from his face. He becomes the beautiful boy in the photograph again. Overhead, clouds re-form, darkening as they merge like one shitty thought attracting another. Thunder ricochets through my heart as it splits the air, echoing over the endless fields of water trapping us on this island.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE RIDDLE OF
THE FOG

FIVE YEARS AGO

I can’t find the Reverend anywhere, so I might as well check the school. It’s a public school, but Ambrose doesn’t care about separating out the local church. Seems like every time I bike past Heather Street, the Reverend is toting boxes of God-knows-what in and out of this school. Probably food and clothing drives, or maybe he just isn’t satisfied until he’s butted into every single corner of this town.

Yeesh. When I need to find this son of a bitch, he’s nowhere.

As soon as I burst in through the double doors, a forgiving blast of arctic air hits me. The August heat has been brutal—Mom was right to rag on me for the double layers I’m wearing: camo pants and a black Strokes tee underneath ripped, sleeveless flannel. “I don’t need you looking like Jacksonville trash when we’re trying to make a good impression,” she huffed, but I don’t give a shit about impressing anyone in a town that doesn’t even got a decent mall.

Ambrose Middle School is as dark and cool as a cave, its halls empty and still. A hibernating animal about to welcome new students in a few weeks and become restless once again. It’s weird being in a school I don’t attend yet—we moved here from Florida in June, and while I already know the church like the back of my hand, school is a totally different beast. A small, warmly lit office in an alcove just inside the entrance is the only sign of life I can make out. Inside, two secretaries laugh behind a counter as they cool themselves with miniature battery-operated fans.

“I’m looking for the Reverend,” I say without introducing myself, my overgrown, mulleted hair plastered to my forehead. “Y’all know where he’s at?”

The women, no older than my mom, stare at me like a muddy dog just got loose inside. They have to know where the Reverend is—what is a one-horse town good for except to be up in everybody’s business?

“What’s that blood on your cheek?” asks the first secretary, a pole-thin Black woman I recognize from the library.

I dab at the rough, healing wound on my cheekbone and roll my eyes. “Just a scuff from my go-kart.”

“Well, you got dirt in it. You gotta clean that out, it’s bad for you.”

“I’m looking for the Reverend. Is he here or not?”