Prologue

2024

I opened my eyes to the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room, the same view I’d been staring at for weeks now. I almost cursed being awake, since awake meant pain. The doctors were doing what they could, but at this point, it was almost impossible to keep the pain management up.

Half the time, I was so doped up I was barely conscious, which was probably how everyone wanted me to be. I was so close to the end, regardless of what they said about fighting and how strong I was, I didn’t want to waste these last few days or hours or however long I had sleeping. I’d sleep forever, soon enough.

I tried not to be bitter about it. I knew it could have been worse. I hadn’t lingered for months and months, gone in and out of remission. Hell, I’d been able to skip chemo entirely. By the time I went in to see the doctor about the pains I’d been having, it was too late to do anything. The cancer had spread quickly, eating away at my body like termites through wood.

“Mr. Sims, are you certain you don’t want to talk? It might ease your mind,” the hospice priest said, just about scaring me out of my bones.

Hell, I’d forgotten he was there. He’d been talking to me as I’d drifted off again. I turned my head slightly, meeting his eyes. I could see he was trying to be kind. To offer sympathy. Part of me wanted to brush him off, but I could also feel it.

Today was the day. I knew it.

I wasn’t sure I wanted my last day to be completely silent, with no one to talk to.

“You know,” I started, my throat so dry it felt like sandpaper. “I was gonna be somebody once.”

“Really?” he said, I think surprised that I’d actually spoken to him finally.

“Youngest varsity quarterback in Wheaton High history. Made starter as a sophomore. Took us to our first state semi-final in fifteen years.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment,” the priest said, but in that humoring ‘you peaked in high school’ kind of way.

I let out a bitter chuckle that turned into a cough. “Yeah, well, fat lot of good it did me in the end.”

“What happened?” he asked gently.

I closed my eyes, memories washing over me. The roar of the crowd, the weight of the football in my hands, and what happened next.

“Dad died. Just after the season ended. He was a sheriff in Midland in the nineties when they had that bad gang problem. Came up on some kids stealing a car, and boom, they just shot him as he got out of his car. The doctors said he went fast, didn’t even have time to know what happened. Didn’t feel a thing,” I said before drifting for a moment. “Bullshit. I sure as hell felt it. After that ... nothing else seemed to matter.”

I didn’t talk for several minutes, just remembering. Remembering the funeral service, Mom breaking down, Joshua just standing there like a fucking robot. Everyone telling me how great a man he was, how I needed to be the man of the house now, how I had to help my mother.

“I dropped out,” I finally said. “She had these headaches that would take her down for days. Migraines. Had to quit her job ... freshman year? I don’t remember. She couldn’t work. We went on government support and she got disability, but it wasn’t enough, so I dropped out and went to work.”

“That must have been incredibly difficult.”

“Coach tried to talk me out of it. Said I had real potential, you know? That I could go pro if I stuck with it. That I should get my education, which would be really what would help my mom. But we needed the money then, not in eight years or however long it would have taken. Still. Pro. Can you imagine? Instead, I ended up in construction. Spent my life building things for other people while my own shit fell apart.”

“That was only a small part of your life. Work isn’t all we are. Surely there were happier times?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, I had some laughs, but mostly, it was just ... constant struggle. Work, bills, taking care of Mom. Never enough time or money. By the time things settled down, there weren’t really any other chances. I was too old to go back to school and I couldn’t afford it anyway. So I kept working. Just thinking if I could get a little more, you know? Just a little ahead, I could figure out something. But I never got ahead, and then the job that I’d poured my life into, trying to scrape a little out for myself, it caused this shit. Not that the company would pay my medical bills. Can’t prove they gave me the cancer, so they get to make the next chump sick.”

“What about friends? Or your family?”

“Do you see anyone here?” I said, trying very hard not to snap at him. “I moved from job to job too much and half the guys I worked with were illegals, so they didn’t stay put long. And family? Mom ... she was never the same after Dad died. The migraines got worse, and then the depression set in, and then Joshua ... man, my little brother. He finished her off.”