Greg squeezed my hand. Barely. He didn’t have the strength for more.
“You were right,” he whispered. “To lock it.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’m unlocking it now.”
He lived six more days.
Nathan didn’t go to school. I didn’t make him. Neither did Denise. Cole came every afternoon. He brought chicken soup in a thermos. From scratch.
Greg couldn’t eat it. Cole brought it anyway.
Nathan played the guitar. The cheap pawn shop one from the motel room. He sat on the end of the bed and played every chord his father taught him.
On the fourth day, he played Friends in Low Places.
He was terrible.
Greg laughed so hard the nurse came in to check on him.
Ezoic
On the fifth day, a man came.
Ezoic
Older. Sixty, maybe. Gray buzz cut. Leather jacket. A screaming eagle pin on the lapel.
