Page 76 of The Way Back Home

“Just get down here quick before he does something he’s gonna regret.”

“I’m on my way.” I hang up the receiver and turn to Josiah, about to tell him to wait here for August, but he shakes his head.

“I’m comin’ with you.”

“Josiah, no.”

“I’m comin’ with you. Either you let me in the passenger seat of your car, or I take your bike, but I’m coming either way.”

I nod as I start up the stairs. “Fine. Grab my keys, I’ll be down in a minute.”

***

IPULL INTO THE DISABLEDpark in front of Jessie’s Restaurant. There’s a crowd of people gathered around, staring, probably drawn by the flashing lights of the sheriff’s cruiser parked beside us.

I climb out of the car and push through the throng of people who’re packed in like sardines watching a grown man fall apart.

He’s backed up against the wall of the restaurant, crouched down on his haunches with his arms wrapped around his knees. He rocks gently back and forth.

“Dalton, look at me.”

“S-s-stay back. D-d-d-don’t touch me,” he shouts. “Where’s my rifle? Who t-t-took my rifle?”

“You don’t need your rifle. You’re not in a war zone anymore, okay?” I say, crouching down in front of him. “You’re here in Magnolia Springs, with me. No one’s going to touch you, Dalton. You’re safe.”

“No. We’re n-n-not s-s-safe. No one’s s-s-safe.” He looks at me for the first time, and the fervor in his eyes is both frightening and heartbreaking all at once. “S-s-see? They want you to think that, b-b-but we ain’t safe. None of y’all are s-s-safe.”

“Where’s Xena, Dalton? Why isn’t she here?”

“She d-d-d-don’t like me much. I can f-f-feel it.”

“No, she loves you. I’ve seen the way she is with you.”

“You should t-t-take her b-b-back. Give her to s-s-someone who needs her, someone who can l-l-love her.”

“Dalton, why don’t you come with me and tell me all about it, huh? We can take a drive, go back to the cabin? Or out to the lake?”

“No! I don’t wanna go t-t-to t-t-the lake. It’s too open. T-t-there are drones everywhere, watching, always w-w-watching.”

“Okay, the cabin then. Why don’t we go to the cabin, and we’ll get your pills? We’ll chat.”

He nods, but he glances at the audience around us and cowers back against the railing. “What are y’all s-s-starin’ for?”

I take a step back and turn to the sheriff and ask, “Can we clear the area?” She glares at me. “Please? He doesn’t do well in crowds.”

“Looks to me like he doesn’t do well out of the psych ward,” Shona says, and gives me an unimpressed look as she turns to the gathering around us and claps loudly. Dalton covers his ears. “Alright, people. Move it along. Nothing to see here. Let’s clear a path for Miss Anders, shall we? Go on, now. I know y’all got better things to do than watching some old drunk throw a tantrum.”

It’s my turn to glare. Dalton isn’t a drunk; he’s a Marine who went to war and came back with traumatic brain injury. But I guess to uneducated outsiders, a PTSD meltdown looks very much like a drunk-and-disorderly nightmare.

Once the area is cleared of onlookers, it’s another ten minutes before I have Dalton calm enough to leave the wall and get him tucked safely in the car. I have the windows down, but he reaches over to the driver’s side and rolls them up, shutting himself inside as if it were a tomb.

Josiah moves to the back door of the vehicle and opens it, about to climb in when his aunt’s voice booms across the burning concrete lot toward us. “Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

“Home,” Josiah says. “With Olivia.”

She chuckles, “Home? That ain’t your home. Just ’cause you’re playing house with a bunch of white folks don’t mean that’s your home. She ain’t your mamma. In fact, it’s downright creepy, a single woman taking in a young black man.”

“Go get in the car, Josiah,” I say. He glances between his aunt and me.

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