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  Mark got to the man first. He wrapped him in a bear hug and without losing momentum lifted him off the ground and smashed into another window. The bats converged. When the man fell through the window, the bats followed.

  Matthew gawked at the wound the size of a fist in Luke’s back.

  In the front,

  oh Luke.

  The blood. There was no heart to mend, just a hole in his chest.

  oh Luke

  His eyes. Matthew needed Luke to see him, wanted to comfort him. In these last moments. He held him. Watched his brother’s beautiful blue eyes close forever.

  oh Luke

  Matthew saw it all, a prophecy of pain. Saw his parents, their sad eyes looking right through him. Saw their lives withering. Luke’s coffin. The grave. His mother crying.

  “Oh, Luke.”

  Mathew saw himself, a solitary figure among the ruins of his life, forsaken and unforgiven.

  The word “no” was on everyone’s lips. Tommy saying it quick and quiet, over and over. Matthew with one long roar.

  Mark stared out the window in a daze. The strange black man had landed on his back on the broken asphalt of the driveway. He was completely naked and his left arm was twisted underneath him at an impossible angle. His right hand still held the gun. Mark’s heart and lungs fought for space in his chest. He watched and waited for some sign of movement from the man because that would mean he wasn’t dead and that would mean Mark hadn’t killed him. In the dim moonlight, Mark wasn’t sure of anything but he was pretty sure that he’d just killed a man. He didn’t even know the man’s name.

  Mark couldn’t hear what Matthew was shouting. Blood roared through his ears in an adrenaline-fueled torrent.

  Mark didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t want to look at the dead man on the pavement either. He closed his eyes. “No.”

  “Tommy,” Matthew said, “call an ambulance. Then get out of here.”

  She left the bedroom.

  “Christ,” Mark said when he finally looked. “I hope it was fucking worth it.” He looked right at Matthew. “You hear me?”

  Matthew’s eyes flinched. He seemed to swallow something before he said, “I hear you.” Kill me, he wanted to tell his brother. If you have any brotherly love left in you, kill me, I beg you.

  Instead, his brother knelt and wept.

  Tommy returned and dressed. Before leaving she bent and touched Luke’s still face and kissed his cold forehead. Then she took Matthew’s face in her hands, she made him look at her.

  “You came back.”

  “Yes.”

  “For me.”

  “Yes.”

  She kissed him on the mouth. A thank you. A goodbye.

  As Mark wailed, Matthew imagined prehistoric men living without knowing how to measure time. Each moment spilling into the next, never ending. Now lasted forever. It occurred to Matthew that perhaps he was dead and Hell was much worse than he’d imagined it, much more like life.

  Luke was uncoiled, floating. He looked around, for the bats. Nothing but a darkening blue. He missed them. Like a bad habit.

  Outside clouds littered the night sky. A thin sliver of a moon glowed like an infected scar, casting just enough light to see the two dead bodies. The clouds grew thicker, the world turned black. All Matthew could see was a trail of mistakes.

  Acknowledgments

  This book took a long time to write. There are a lot of people to thank.

  This book would not exist without my brothers: Matt, Mark and Andy.

  Thank you to my wife, Lisa, for meaning it when she said, for better or worse. Here's to the better.

  Thanks also...

  To my parents, David and Mary Miner for never doubting me.

  To my in-laws, Victor and Maria Serrambana for their constant support.

  To my teachers.

  To my mentors, Randall Kenan and Steven Huff.

  To my PMC workshop mates, Joe Gannon, James Anderson, Melissa Ford Lucken, Michael Farrell, Lisa Friedlander, Estela Gonzelez, Peggy Sue Donnigan, Laura Jones, Ann McCardle, Carol Owens Campbell, and Richard Carr.

  To my first readers, Geoffrey Burgess, Karima Grant, Jim Lucchese, Jeremy Royster, Richard Carey and Patrick Michael Finn.

  To CJ Edwards for his invaluable editing.

  To Chris Rhatigan and Mike Monson of All Due Respect Books for believing in this book enough to get it out into the world.

  To Tanya Whiton for having the courage to give me some tough notes.

  To Sterling Watson for his wisdom and kindness and inspiration.

  About the Author

  Mike Miner lives and writes in Connecticut. He is the author of Prodigal Sons (All Due Respect Books), The Immortal Game (Gutter Books) and Everything She Knows (SolsticeLit Books). His stories can be found in the anthologies, Protectors:Stories to Benefit PROTECT and Pulp Ink 2 as well as in places like Thuglit, BEAT to a PULP, All Due Respect, Burnt Bridge, Narrative, PANK, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Shotgun Honey and others.