Chapter 1

"Hey Dad," Gavin calls, leaning into the garage and peering about, "you in here?"

The area is so cluttered with storage bins, yard tools, and miscellaneous family possessions that neither one of his father's two cars has a prayer of fitting inside. The battered toolbox his father uses has been left standing open and waiting by the outside door which is also open, but there's no one in sight. Glancing around again nervously, Gavin steps inside, and closes the door to the house. His father has been repeatedly threatening over the past week to, in his words, "clear the entire weekend," and force both himself and Gavin to unpack the overstuffed garage. Escape is tantalizingly close, but Gavin knows he must be careful. The damned garage couldn't possibly have anything important inside it; otherwise, they would've needed it before now. Still, if the paternal unit was dead set on inflicting a weekend of toil and slavery on him, there'd be no way of avoiding it.

Edging around the two towering piles of storage bins that bracket his bicycle on either side, Gavin begins trying to wedge it free. He frowns. He hasn't taken the bike out for a long ride since arriving here, but he wouldn't have left it crammed in-between two piles of crap either. Dad must've been looking for something this morning. The handlebars and front tire are twisted to the side, but when he pulls at the back tire, the rear stack of bins tips alarmingly towards his head.

Shit!

He hastily lets go of the bike, and throws up a hand to brace the teetering pile of bins.

That's all I need, crushed to death in a garage in Podunk, USA.

Gavin and his father had moved to the small community outside of Austin, TX--improbably named Pflugerville--one week ago, just after his successful escape from ninth grade. His father had managed an escape of sorts as well just before the move; his divorce was made final on May 10. Given the events of the past few months, his parent's breakup hadn't surprised Gavin all that much, but the move itself had come as a total shock. Both his parents had gone a little crazy during the divorce, but his father's relentless insistence that he and Gavin move far away from any possible contact with his mother struck him as way over the top. Of course, if he'd been married to someone for sixteen years, and then had caught his wife playing around with another guy, he'd have probably gotten pissed too. But, pissed enough to drag himself and his kid to a place called Pflugerville?

The wavering pile of bins steadies, and Gavin decides on a course of decisive action. The longer he stands here screwing around, the likelier it is that his dad will appear and press gang him into some unwanted chore. Continuing to brace the bins with his right hand, he reaches forward with his left, grabs the back tire, and quickly yanks it free.

Just as easy as that.

Smiling, he straightens up, and pulls the bike towards him. The handlebars pivot to the left, and snag the music stand which is leaning against the bins in front. He lunges forward, and his fingers actually catch and hold the music stand for a moment. Then he overbalances, and the stand, its accompanying load of books and papers, the bike, and Gavin all fall to the floor.

Pain lances up his right arm, and Gavin grits his teeth, trying not to yell. One of the bike pedals is poking into his stomach, and he'd really like to look at his arm and see whether he's managed to break it, but everything's a little fuzzy and he decides not to move. There's a moment of silence, then he hears panting, toenails clicking along the garage floor, and suddenly a wet tongue is licking his face.

"Hey, Mac," he croaks, looking up at the concerned German shepherd, "do dogs go to Heaven, or are we both still stuck in this hell hole?"

Mac whines and gives Gavin's exposed cheek another lick.

Feeling a little bit better, Gavin gives the injured arm an experimental tug. The pain doesn't get much worse, and feels more like a pulled muscle than a broken bone. He turns his head to look, and sure enough the arm appears to be intact. It's trapped underneath one of the handlebars though, so he won't be able to move it until he's off the bike.

"Gavin?"

It's his father's voice, with that parental overtone which means, "What did you just destroy?" Mac's ears prick up.

"Yeah boy," Gavin growls, pushing with his feet until he rolls over and off of the bike, "that's the alpha dog." Then louder, "Hey, dad."

He reaches with his left arm, gives the bike a shove, and tries to sit up. The garage spins around him, and he slumps back towards the floor. Perhaps moving hadn't been such a smoking hot idea after all.

"You all right? What was that noise?"

What to say?

"I, uh, thought maybe I'd clean up a little bit."

"Uh-huh." There's a long pause. Then, "I think that's probably a job for two people working together, son."

The garage has stopped whirling about, and he again tries to sit up. He succeeds, and begins massaging his injured arm. Looking over at Mac, he mutters, "When he's right, he's right."

"Is anything broken?" his father inquires.

Gavin peers out the open garage door, wondering why his father hasn't shown up by now. His voice is a little faint, as though he's standing off to the side, or maybe working on one of the cars? All the wheels of both cars are firmly on the ground however, and neither vehicle has a pair of legs sticking out from under it.

Weird!

"No sir," he answers, struggling to his feet. "Not unless you count old school books anyway." One of the music stand's legs appears to have been bent back upon itself. "H'm, a music stand?"

"You wanna maybe take a survey and get back to me on that?"

The voice is unexpectedly mellow.

What the hell?

Careful not to move too fast, he walks outside, and begins scanning the front yard for missing paternal units. A few kids, ages from five to about eight, are dribbling a basketball and making mostly ineffective shots at a hoop a couple houses down. Compared to the constant city noises he's grown up with, the neighborhood is eerily quiet. The only background sounds are humming air conditioner compressors, and the distant growl of a lawn mower.

It is Mac who finally clues him in. The shepherd trots out behind him, sits down facing the house, and stares up at the roof in puzzlement. Turning around, Gavin looks up, and beholds the home's patriarch, face up and sprawled out on the roof.

"Good morning," his father says, "or should I say afternoon?"

"I'm a teenager, it's summer ... What are you doing up there?"

"Remember the storm that blew through here the night after we moved in?"

"Sure."

"I'm inspecting our property for hail damage."

"I see," Gavin answers, beginning to smile. "Aren't you, um, facing the wrong way?"

His father flips over, and gives him a mock glare. "You certainly do ask a..." Then his gaze becomes concerned. "Gavin, you're bleeding."

"What?"

"Your forehead."

Gavin raises a hand, begins searching, and finds a small cut above his left eyebrow. There's a fair amount of blood, but it doesn't feel that serious.

"What were you doing in the garage anyway?" his father demands.

"Trying to get my bike out," he mumbles, one hand applying steady pressure to his head.

His father starts to laugh, and flips back over on to his back. "I should've known," he chuckles. "Well, go put a band-aid on before you bleed all over your shirt. The warden's on vacation, and you can ride your bike for the rest of the day if you want to. We'll worry about the garage some other weekend, okay?"

"Okay," he answers, fingers still plastered to his forehead.

"Hey Gav?" his father says softly as he's walking inside. "I'm sorry for what happened. There weren't any good choices."

Gavin stands very still for a moment.

Not now!