"Good morning, boy," Awo says. I turn as Marshall walks onto the porch, stretching his arms over his head, yawning.

"Morning," he says quietly. He studies my face for a few beats trying to interpret what he sees there.

"Hey," he finally says to me. "What's going on?"

I shrug. "Awo and I are just having some coffee. Listening to the birds."

He nods, walks to the porch railing, and picks up our empty cups. "I'll get you some more."

They invite me to stay for breakfast. Afterward, Awo asks, "I will fish today. Would you like to go with me?"

We glance at each other across the small wooden table, exchanging knowing looks. "Sure," we say in unison.

-----

Marshall walks me to my car later that evening. "I hope Awo didn't say anything too weird to you this morning."

"Just truth. Always truth." I repeat.

Marshall cocks his head to the side, studying my face. Trying to make sense of me. "So...what made you come out here today?"

"I don't know. I was driving. And I wound up here...I'm still not sure how that happened."

Marshall shrugs and nods like he totally gets it. But I'm not sure I get it. I climb in my car, and as I am driving away, my heart skips a beat, but not in a good way.

I don't have my phone.

It's getting dark, and I'm not positive how to get home on these reservation roads with no GPS to guide me. I roam around for what seems like forever until I finally find my way back to 190. It's a sketchy ride. When I pull into the driveway, I say a little prayer that no one has noticed my absence.

All the lights in the house are on as I creep in the back door to the kitchen. Emma is sitting there at the kitchen table by herself.

She glances up from her phone and spears me with a look.

"What's up?" I ask all casual-like.

She takes a deep breath. "Where have you been? We've been worried sick. Mom and Dad are out looking all over town for you."

"Oh shit."

"Pretty much. What is wrong with you?"

"I don't know...I was out...and I forgot my phone. I mean, sorry. I didn't know anyone would care."

"That is so you, Peyton!" Emma hisses.

I shrug. "I said I was sorry..."

She shakes her head at me as she phones my mom. "Yes, she's here...Yes, she's fine." She shakes her head again. "I'm not sure...she just came in." She hangs up and looks at me, still shaking her head.

"What?" I ask innocently.

She moves to the sink and begins rinsing tonight's dinner dishes. "They thought you were dead, Peyton. They thought you were killed in a car crash. Or that you offed yourself. Don't you remember what day it is?"

"I remember exactly what day it is. I left because I was trying to forget."

"That's pretty damn selfish," she snaps.

I open the dishwasher and put out my hand so she can give me the plate to load. She glares at me a moment before handing it over.

"I know. I'm a moron. I didn't mean to worry anyone."

She just shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and hands me another dish.

"I'm serious, Em. I'm really sorry...about everything."

Her eyebrows draw together as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel. "What do you mean by everything?"

I shrug. "I mean, just that you were right. I've been an asshole."

"Not gonna argue with you there." She's trying not to smile, but her right dimple is a dead giveaway.

"And I just want you to know that I'm not gonna shut you out anymore."

She swallows, and tears pool in her eyes. "Good." Then she hugs me to her, squeezing me with her bony little arms.

"I also want you to know," I say with my chin resting on the top of her head, "that I will never expect you to be the goddamn perky one."

She pulls back and gives me the full Emma grin. "It's nice to be perky every once in a while. You should try it." She winks. 

The back door flies open and my parents burst into the kitchen. "Peyton!" my mother gasps, hugging me close. My dad stands there looking at me with anguish written all over his face. He storms past me down the hall and into his man cave.

My mom pushes me away from her and looks me in the eye. "Peyton, I'm furious with you. You should never leave and not tell anyone where you're going. And if you do, take your phone so we can contact you."

"I'm so sorry. I never forget my phone. It's just been a strange day."

She hugs me close. "Lucky for you, I'm so relieved you're okay that I can't be mad."

"I'm so sorry Mom. I didn't think."

"I'm so thankful you're okay."

"But Dad's mad?" I ask tentatively.

She sighs. "It's been a rough day for all of us. Maybe you should go talk to him."

I walk down the hallway and find him there in the dark, looking out the window.

"Hey."

"I'm not in the mood to talk to you right now."

Even from across the room in the pitch dark, I can see he's holding a freshly poured glass of whiskey.

"I thought you were going to a doctor. I thought you were going to try to stop drinking," I counter.

"Yeah, this would be the perfect day to get sober. A year from the day I found out I had to bury my child. Awesome timing, Peyton."

"This isn't about him, Dad. It's also not about you. It's about us. We all tiptoe around you, terrified you'll unravel if we say the wrong thing. We walk on eggshells trying not to remind you, trying not to suggest that you are being selfish or that you have a problem. But you know what? You have a problem. And your problem is hurting all of us."

"Get off your high horse, Peyton. Don't talk to me about being selfish. I don't want to sit here and remember day after day that I could have done more to prevent my son's death. I neglected him out of selfish pride. And I gladly suffer every single day for it. It isn't selfish. Because if I stop suffering...what does that mean? That I forget him? That my memory of him is fading?"

My eyes have adjusted to the dark. The moonlight reflects in the tears on his face. I walk to him and kneel beside his chair. "Dad, you're not to blame. It's not your fault that Pax died."

He shakes his head. He doesn't believe me.

"Dad, there was nothing you could've done to stop his cancer. You didn't kill Pax. You have to stop blaming yourself for his death."

He's sobbing now, but I don't stop.

"Suffering every day for something you couldn't have prevented doesn't preserve Pax's memory. It doesn't honor his soul. It doesn't celebrate his life. You have to let go."

"I can't let him go, Peyton. He will cease to exist if I let him go!"

I know exactly how that feels. I felt the same way. But it's not the truth. He needs us to let him go.

"He won't, Dad. He won't. This is going to sound crazy. I've never told anyone this. But I talk to Pax. I talk to him all the time..."

I can't believe how insane this doesn't actually seem until I say it out loud. "He talks to me too. All the time."

"Oh, Peyton..." He has his head buried in his hands, and his body rocks back in forth, as if he's trying to quell the pain. "Please stop."

"No. He's telling me to tell you this. You told me to be a fighter. That's what I'm doing. I'm fighting. I'm fighting for you. He's telling me to fight for you. For all of us."

He shakes his head again, not wanting to listen. Not wanting to let go of his grief.

"He's telling me he loves you and he forgives you."

"No..." my father shouts out, his voice watery.

"He's telling me that every day you drink...every time you drown your grief in alcohol... you dishonor his memory."

"Oh my god," he sobs, reaching for me in the dark.

We wrap our arms around each other, then I whisper, "He's telling me this one last thing... he needs you to heal. He needs all of us to heal, so that he can finally be at peace."