1923

Despite the beatings, Clay can still see through one eye.  He stares at the hobos by the fire.  It took everything he had to drag himself here.  And now he’s going to die.  Under a dead tree.  In a pile of dead branches.  A few feet from the only thing he ever wanted.

Richard told him to take the baby and run.  Richard said that Dora was sick with grief over the other twin.  He said that she would kill the girl.  He said that Clay had to act quickly.  He said Clay had to act now.

He feels a chill on his neck which surprises him.  He thought he’d lost all feeling back there.

What if his brother was lying?

“I’m not for hurting her, Jeb.  She might be worth some money.”

“What I have in mind won’t hurt much.  Give her here.”

The old man doesn’t want to see it.  He turns away from the fire, and right into the hard end of a swinging branch.  It rips his face off.

Clay lumbers from the brush, top-heavy, his head swollen.  The bigger hobo drops the baby and grabs a flaming log.  He breaks Clay’s arm.  He breaks Clay’s shoulder.

Clay lunges and they both end up in the fire.  Clay feels the flames on his hands, on his legs.  They both scream.  They both burn.

The hobo panics first, a ball of flame bobbing through the dark woods.

Clay rolls from the fire.  And there she is.

His daughter.

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