Red, Like My Bleeding Heart in Your Hand: Wildflowers of Deliverance, #1

CHAPTER ONE

The new kid

The new kid is red-faced and wheezing by the time they make it up the hill. It ain't even half as big as the one over by Chuck's place, but by the way Teddy is huffing and puffing, you'd think he'd run up and down it a dozen times.

Before he can think better of it, Nash asks, What's wrong with you?

He ain't fat, not even close. He probably ain't a smoker neither, considering most six-year-olds aren't, but he's sure breathin' like one. Maybe this is why Ms. Rainer was fixed on having Nash see Teddy home from the bus stop. Somehow, she knew just by looking, that there's somethin' off with this one.

As Teddy heaves for air, his backpack slips free from one shoulder, but he shrugs it back on and keeps dragging his feet through the gravel. His house is visible now, set too close to the road, so it's a muted dusty gray under all the gravel dust. The dust swirls in the wind like a toddler playing at being a ballerina after too much sugar, and the leaves dance along to the rasp of the corn stalks shifting and swaying in time.

Nash hesitates on the porch as Teddy throws open the storm door and pushes into the house without a backward glance. When he doesn't close the door behind him, Nash follows.

Inside, Teddy's ragged breaths are louder, helped along to Nash's ears by the uncovered wood floor. He follows into the kitchen where the yellowy linoleum pops and crackles underfoot in the places where it's bubbled up.

The drawer beside the sink opens with a screech of wood as Teddy pulls out an inhaler, puts it between his lips, and sucks in a long, deep breath. With his eyes closed and his face screwed up, he lowers the inhaler and holds his breath for a long, long time. Then he exhales, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and faces Nash with his chin tipped up proudly.

All the things.

Huh?

You asked what's wrong with me, Teddy says in a reedy voice. He pauses to breathe. There's a lot wrong with me.

Oh. Are you… sick?

Dying is what he wants to ask, but he's been whacked in the back of the head enough to know better.

Teddy shrugs, inhaler between his lips again and Nash has to wait until he tosses the inhaler back in the drawer, rams it shut, and exhales.

Not right now, Teddy says, but maybe tomorrow. Wanna play Pokémon? He flips the lid off a sagging women's shoe box on the table and reveals a treasure trove of Pokémon cards.

Nash cranes for a closer look before he can stop himself. Woah, those are all yours?

He pulls cards out by the handful. Yeah, my mom and dad used to buy me a pack every time they had to travel.

Nash stares, mesmerized, as Teddy rifles through the cards like he knows what he's looking at—all the colors and creatures and elements—it's overwhelming.

They must travel a lot. He can't imagine what that's like. The farthest he's ever been from Deliverance is the Walmart in Buford Hills, the next town over.

Used to. They're dead now, so… He keeps messing with the cards. Like it's nothing to him. Like he doesn't care. Like his face isn't scrunched and his shoulders aren't boxed up around his ears.

If he wasn't so visibly uncomfortable, Nash would think he was trying to make a joke. He doesn't know what to say, so, out of pity, he puts his backside on the line and asks, How do we play?

He's gonna get an ass whoopin' for being home late, but it's almost worth it for the relieved smile that overtakes Teddy's discomfort as he babbles about types and strengths and weaknesses.

Nash settles himself opposite him at the table and silently bemoans his inability to ignore the kicked puppy types.

Thank you, Mr. Spinoza, but I'd rather walk.

Are you sure?

Teddy's uncle is a middle kind of man. He isn't tall or short. Nor is he skinny or fat. Neither smiley nor angry. He seems content to hold the middle of it all. He's got his car keys in his hand and is poised over a pair of mangy boots, waiting for Nash's change of heart. He ain't even out of his shop uniform yet—streaked with car gunk though it is.

I can drop you off and have a quick word with your folks explaining why you were out late. It's nearly dark.

You don't need to, Nash rushes to say. Honest. I walk quick 'n' it ain't far.

His aren't the kind of parents anybody likes to meet. Maybe Mama'd be alright without Daddy stompin' and ragin' all the time, but she ain't without him so there's nothin' for it 'cept to keep the middle kind of men away from Daddy's all-the-way kind of man.

Mr. Spinoza's expression is mild as he watches Nash, but Nash gets the feeling he's seeing through to the heart of things and Mr. Spinoza knows exactly why Nash don't want anybody reasonable near his daddy.

He doesn't move or breathe until Mr. Spinoza nods. Only the wrinkle between his eyebrows betrays his discomfort with the plan, and Nash means to be long gone before that discomfort can win him over.

You'd better get a move on then.

Yes, sir.

You're going to be in trouble?

Teddy's wavering question stops Nash's inching retreat toward the door. He's wearing the same bafflement that all the kids with good, kind parents display whenever they're exposed to someone who can't blindly trust their folks.

Only a little. And maybe in another life that'd be the truth. It's not late, but it's the time of year when the sun turns in early and only rises when it can't get away with staying down any longer. And Daddy don't usually need an excuse to put the fear of God into him, so it's always a special treat when Nash gives him one.

Why'd you stay then?

It might be something in the jutting tip of Teddy's chin or the proud shine in his eyes, or perhaps it's instinct honed from years of tiptoeing around his old man that warns Nash away from the truth—or at least the truth Teddy's diggin' for.

I never seen that many Pokémon cards before.

Teddy's posture relaxes, and that same playful grin from earlier peeps out.

Have, Mr. Spinoza says.

Baffled, Nash retorts, Have not.

Mr. Spinoza shakes his head. "No, 'I have never seen that many Pokémon cards before.'"

Nash glances at Teddy, then looks back to Mr. Spinoza and slowly, with his best enunciation, says, Neither have I.

Teddy cackles, head thrown back, and nearly falls from his seat at the table. Mr. Spinoza smiles, and it lightens him up, but not enough to make Nash feel better about being the butt of some joke he doesn't understand.

He inches back. I should go.

Thank you for keeping Teddy company. You're welcome back anytime—but call home and get permission first.

Yes, sir. But he knows there ain't no way Daddy'll ever give him permission to come back. He shoots a longing glance at the cards still strewn across the table. It's a shame he won't get to play again. It was fun while it lasted.

Nash sets his tray in front of him and eases onto the bench. Once he's sitting, he breathes out slowly through the ache in his ribs as his body acclimates to the new position. Then he