Page 85 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

“Ohhhh the eaaaagle didn’t love Ethaaan,” she sang.

“Joy,” Ethan said, scandalized. “Too soon.”

“Ohhh the eagle saw his cringy flirrt and said, ‘Boy, not todaaay!’”

Mia wheezed with laughter. Even Shun was smiling. Max joined in with backup beatboxing, which somehow made it worse.

“I will never emotionally recover from this,” Ethan quipped, hugging his knees.

“I have video evidence,” Mia added. “For historical preservation.”

Eventually, Joy's singing devolved into something that could only be described as banshee karaoke. She belted off-key until her voice cracked, then dramatically collapsed into Mia’s lap.

“Thank you, thank you,” she rasped. “I’ll be here all night.”

“Unfortunately,” I whispered.

The fire popped, sending a tiny ember drifting into the night. The warmth started sinking into our bones, replacing the creeping chill of panic. We didn’t have tents. Or a bathroom. Or proper adult supervision (Mr. Dax was now loudly murmuring something about algebra in his sleep). But for a minute… it wasn’t so bad.

The group quieted down.

Mia leaned against Joy. Shun stared into the fire like it held all the answers to life. Ethan lay flat on his back, possibly rethinking his entire existence. Max tried roasting a snack he found in his pocket—probably a melted protein bar.

And me?

I kept glancing toward the trees.

I didn’t say anything. Not yet. But something still felt… off. Like we weren’t alone out here. Like the woods were listening. It wasn't my paranoia. I could tell. It was someone.

At some point in the night, I found myself seated between Shun and Joy.

Then, I broke.

Not with a dramatic collapse or anything. It just...spilled. Quiet. Tired. Like a thread snapping.

I let it all slip out.

“I think he’s still alive.”

They both froze.

Shun paused.

Joy lowered her leg from mid-air and blinked. “Who?”

“My dad,” I said, and my voice came out too level, like I’d rehearsed it in my head a hundred times. Maybe I had. “I think he’s been faking it. Hiding. Watching.”

There was a long, fragile silence.

They didn’t ask what are you talking about? or are you sure you’re okay? —because they knew. They knew. They were the ones who sat outside the therapy office with me in sixth grade when I couldn’t say my own last name without shaking. They were the ones who helped me burn that old photo album. They knew about the nightmares. The crying fits. The hollowed-out version of me that existed for years.

“Clark…” Shun said softly, his eyes already glassing. “That’s not something you say lightly.”

“I’m not saying it lightly,” I snapped, then exhaled. “I wouldn’t joke about him. I hate him. But he’s back. Or something like him is.”

Joy leaned forward, her tone gentle in that rare, uncharacteristic way she reserved only for broken things. “Are you sure it’s not your mind trying to fill in shadows again? You said the therapy helped.”

“It did,” I murmured. “But lately… everything’s slipping. I see him in dreams. Hear his voice behind doors. And today, that shadow—I swear it was him. Not just a memory. Not just trauma. Him.”

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