His father was on his back in a comfortable bed, his head supported by a pillow and his face pinched with pain as he labored to breathe. Bryce’s mother was kneeling beside his bed, holding his right hand between both of hers. And at the foot of the bed, a man in a black shirt with a white collar stood reading from an open book.
His mother looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot, but she was…smiling. Her countenance was almost joyful. “Bryce. Thank you for coming.”
She reached out to him, but he ignored the gesture. Storming into the room, he pointed at the man with the white collar. “What’s he doing here?”
“Honey, I think—”
Bryce cut her off. “You can’t force your stupid traditions on people against their will. You’re—you’re violating Dad’s dignity.”
“Honey—”
But his blood was boiling. He could feel himself losing control. “He wouldn’t want this!” Bryce ripped the Bible out of the man’s hands and threw it on the floor. “Get out!”
Shirt-Collar took a deep breath, let out a sigh and pressed his lips into a thin line. He stooped to pick up the book, but Bryce kicked it away.
“I said, get out!”
“That’s enough, son.”
Bryce wanted to throttle the man for calling him “son,” but then he realized the priest had not spoken. Whirling, he looked at his father. “Dad?”
The man Bryce had loved and respected his entire life gave a tiny nod. He took two breaths, gathering the strength to speak, and said, “They are here…” He took another breath. “At my request.”
Bryce moved to his bedside and knelt. “But Dad…” He frowned and tried to look into his father’s eyes, but they were shut tight.
A long moment of silence passed, and Bryce’s mother said, “This is what he wanted.”
“How would you know?” Bryce shook his head. “You left, remember?” He rose to his feet and pointed at his mother. “He’s sick, and you’re taking advantage of his weakness to push your stupid beliefs on him. It’s disgusting and it’s sad.”
Tears were welling in his mother’s eyes. He had always known how to make her cry. She turned away and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “That’s not how it happened. The chaplain was already here when we arrived.”
Bryce sneered and was about to berate Shirt-Collar, but a trembling motion caught his attention. His father was trying to lift one of his bony hands.
“Just rest,” Bryce said, kneeling again. “I’ll take care of this.”
There was pain on William Larson’s face. His lips puckered, and he forced out a tiny exhalation.
“What do you need, Dad? Water?”
William’s head shook a fraction of an inch. He forced his puckered lips open again, forming a silent word.
Bryce leaned in closer, placing his left ear in front of his father’s mouth. He felt a puff of air and heard the last word William would ever utter on earth.
“Proud.”
8
Ashley Forest, South Carolina
A shadow loomed over the future, casting thousands of people living along the east coast into anxiety and fear. But the atmosphere was different inside the Larson residence. The air was redolent with the smells of coffee and cinnamon pancakes. Children laughed as they chased each other from room to room, and their parents held lively conversations in the dining room.
Kayla Larson smiled as she slid a spatula beneath a pancake and flipped it over. She was glad for the home she had built with Eric—glad that they could provide for their friends and families during a time of crisis. Charleston had become a dangerous place, but here, the joy of the holiday season was as infectious as ever. Kayla and Eric had plenty of food, access to a nearly limitless supply of water, and more security than the average military base. Then there was Jarrod, the fearsome vigilante whom no one liked to talk about, though all were thankful for.
More than thirty people had come to abide in the Larson home. They didn’t know how long the crisis would last or if they would ever return to their normal lives, but for now, they were happy. Christmas was only a few days away, and the air was electric with excitement. For the first time in years, everyone Kayla loved would be under the same roof, singing Christmas carols and truly enjoying the festive season.
She flipped a golden-brown pancake onto a plate and placed a slice of butter on top. Then, turning her head, she shouted, “Kids, breakfast is ready!”
There was a thundering stampede of footsteps as the children coalesced from every corner of the house. They crowded around Kayla, standing on their tip-toes to peer over the counter.
Kayla smiled, lifted the plate laden with flapjacks, and pushed through the crowd. “All right, you piranhas, follow me.” She led them into the dining room and placed the plate on a plastic table. Miniature chairs squeaked against the floor as eight children between the ages of two and ten took their seats. Kayla glanced over her shoulder at a girl with a dour expression and blue eyes tinged with sadness. “Sylvia, could you please grab a stack of the little plates from the cupboard? And forks, too?”
Sylvia walked into the kitchen without a word of complaint or acknowledgment. Kayla’s lips tightened into a thin line as she watched her go. The girl’s infectious sadness crept into Kayla’s heart, and she had to fight back tears. The pain of loss was still fresh for everyone who knew and loved Thomas Ward, and Kayla had loved him like a second father. She would never stop loving and missing him, but at least there were ways to keep herself busy and distract herself from the pain. But for Thomas’s grandchildren—for Sylvia, Cadence, Nolan, and Tommy—the restful days had given them an overabundance of time to reminisce about their grandfather and the tragic way he had been taken from them.
Kayla swallowed, returned to the kitchen, and stood in front of the stove. The joy of the holidays faded away and was replaced by a black pit in her chest. She cooked two dozen more pancakes in silence, burning more than a few of them.
When she had finished, she prepared a plate, filled a glass with water, and walked to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Her knuckles rapped twice against the door, and she spoke in a soft voice. “Phoebe? May I come in?”
As usual, there was no reply. Kayla counted to five, then twisted the doorknob and entered the room. Phoebe Ward was sitting on the bed with her hands folded in her lap. She was staring straight ahead, transfixed by something beyond the boundaries of reality.
“Phoebe, I brought you some pancakes and some fruit.”
The regal, gray-haired woman blinked and slowly turned her head. “Oh. Hello, Kayla. How nice of you to come over. Have you come to visit Eric?”
Kayla hesitated, turning her gaze downward to hide the tears brimming in her eyes. She placed the plate on the nightstand beside two other untouched plates of food. “Please, Phoebe, you need to eat.”
The woman went on as if she hadn’t heard Kayla. “I’m afraid Thomas and Eric are out of town again—off to Venezuela this time. And I believe they took your brother with him.” The dimness in her eyes deepened. “He’s such a nice man, your brother. He’s grown up a lot these past few years, and I think he’s going to turn things around.”