Page 10 of Liam

My backpack—the one that’s been sitting on my bed unopened—is nothing more than a puzzle piece.

On the drive home, Roman explained a police officer showed up at his work and handed it to him. According to the cop, the backpack was left on his desk, along with a handwritten note with Roman’s name, an address where he could find him, and arequest to return it if he had time. That’s all the cop knew, and that was enough information for Roman.

But not for me.

I had questions, lots of them, but I only asked two. “Did you open the backpack?”

To which he said, “Absolutely not.”

Then I asked, “Do you know the cop?”

Roman shrugged. “I’ve seen him around, but I don’t know him by name.”

I didn’t know whether to believe him. I still don’t.

It’s been hours since he’d picked me up from work. We’ve had dinner together, where the only conversation we had was him telling me I could take his truck in the evenings if I wanted to hang out with Wyatt. I told him I didn’t drive. His eyes lit up with his offer to teach me, and I almost felt bad for shutting him down. I alreadyhavemy license, and besides, I didn’t say Icouldn’tdrive.

I said Ididn’t.

I’ve physically ignored the backpack for as long as possible, but mentally, it’s all I can think about, and so I wait until Roman has called it a night to finally inspect it. The only thing in there of real importance is my journal, and it’s the first thing I notice when I unzip the bag. The book is worn now, the cover torn and pages frayed from use and age. Dayna had bought this particular one the day after the shitshow of my one and only therapy session and suggested I talk toitinstead. I’ve accumulated many more since.

Journaling seems to work, for the most part, because the pages are filled with scattered thoughts, meaningless memories, and never-endingfeelings. My words, recollections, even the sketches wouldn’t make sense to anyone who tries to decipher them. Heck, I’ve read over them thousands of times, and they don’t even make sense to me.

I set the book aside and reach into the backpack for the carabiner holding a dozen or so fidget clickers Dayna packed for me. I switch out the star-shaped one on my keys for a mushroom, then throw the rest back in the bag. I check my wallet, which is how I assume I was linked to Roman. Nothing’s changed. Then I check the side pocket. To my surprise, the switchblade is still there. I replace everything where it belongs and hang the bag on the hook behind the door. That’s when I notice the giant bulge sticking out from the front pocket. I never keep anything there. Without hesitation, I unzip the section and reach inside, my breath catching the moment my fingertips meet the leather. Fingers splayed, I grab the baseball and immediately hold it to my chest. It’s instant… the way the heat burns behind my eyes, my nose, and I realize how pathetic it is that an inanimate object can hold so much weight, so much emotion, but besides my brother himself, the stupid baseball he once gave me is all I wanted for so many years, and now I finally have it.

Immediately after the cops kicked in our door that night, the trailer—ourhome—became an active crime scene, which meant everything inside it was evidence. They didn’t let me go back to collect my things. No clothes. No toothbrush. Not even a single ribbon.

Before I even settled in at my new home, I had asked—begged—Dayna and Griffin to help me get the damn baseball. I called, even wrote letters, to whoever I thought could help. So did they. But no one ever heard our pleas.

With the ball still held to my chest, I wait a moment for my heart to settle, then reach back into the front pocket. I’d felt something else earlier, but was too struck to look. The plain white envelope is creased, crinkled by the shape of the ball. Unsealed. No name. I open the flap and pull out the contents. It’s a single photograph.Of me. Not just me, but my brother, too, and about a dozen other kids.

I look up from the picture, trying to recall if I’ve ever seen it before. I haven’t. And I don’t know how it ended up in my bag, because if Roman had it all this time, he has no reason to give it to menow.The baseball, maybe. But this…

I inspect the photograph again. I would’ve been in second or third grade in the picture, dressed in my red and blue little league uniform. I was the only girl on the team—a fact Roman was so proud of. You can see it in his grin, in the way his head’s angled just enough to know he was looking at me. He was off to the side with the other coaches, and I stood front and center of my team, holding the trophy. Behind me, with his hands on my shoulders, was Wyatt, and on either side of me…

I’d somehow forgotten how much of my early childhood I’d shared with the Preston twins. School, sports, and maybe even birthday parties.

Lincoln’s on my left, smiling directly into the camera, and Liam…

Liam is smiling atme.

I quickly shove the photograph under my pillow, switch off the lights and climb into bed, praying for my first decent night’s sleep since I got here. But, just like the entries in my journal, my dreams are the same: scattered, meaningless, and never ending. Only… I’m not dreaming. I’mremembering…a memory buried so deep, I’d forgotten it ever existed.

I recognize his eyes first. Ocean blue. Kind. Worried. Pastel hues, all the colors of the rainbow, paint the room. There’s a poster tacked to the wall—a cartoon of a boy with the heading “Where does it hurt?” Arrows on the poster point to different body parts.

I look from the poster to the boy opposite me, who’s nursing an ice pack on his arm. I don’t say a word. Neither does he. ButI catch him looking at me, and I wonder if he can see where it hurts. But my pain isn’t on the outside, like his. It’s inside me. In my stomach—empty, begging. I want to cry, but I keep it together. Even at eight, I knew the consequences of letting someone see my tears.

Footsteps near, and I look toward the open door. My teacher, Miss Harden, is with the school nurse, their voices hushed as they glance toward me. I drop my gaze to my feet, then back up. He’s looking at me again. I want to tell him to stop, but his eyes… his eyes don’t make me uncomfortable like the other eyes that watch me, staring, leering. The bell rings, end of lunch, and neither of us moves. We just sit in silence… for seconds that feel like minutes, minutes that feel like hours.

Finally, more footsteps approach, and I sit taller, glance at the open door again. Roman appears, dressed in his work clothes—overalls stained with oil from fixing cars all day. I quickly get to my feet, falling into his arms the second I’m close enough.

He doesn’t speak, just holds my hand as he grabs my backpack off the floor by the door. We’re almost out of the room when a voice speaks up from behind me. “I hope you feel better, Addie.”

I turn swiftly, lock eyes with an ocean of kindness, and smile for the first time in what feels like forever. “Thanks, Liam.”

5

Liam

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