Page 34 of Scoring the Player
“Use the credit card I gave you.”
“I can pay my own way.”
I can barely hear him over a scratching noise.
“I never said you couldn’t,” I reply. “Where are you, and who’s sandpapering your phone?”
“I didn’t survive combat overseas to come home and have my baby bro bust my balls.”
“Yeah, yeah. Where are you?”
“I’m in Utah, out in the desert.”
I pull the phone away from my ear as the scratching noise gets louder. “Yo, can you find somewhere quieter? And what happened to Minnesota?”
“Hold on.” There’s shuffling, then the sound of a zipper. “I spent a few days with my buddy in the hospital and then left.”
“Your friend’s sick?”
“Depends on who you ask.” He sighs. “He tried to take his life.”
That’s three of his friends. Only this one made it.
That feeling of a latched roof lowering over my lungs hits.
My parents and I spent over a decade praying for his safe return home, and now my fears are of a different kind of horror.
“You, erm…” I pause to steady my voice. “You okay?”
“Yeah…I should go.”
He’s not okay.
“Wait. What’s in Utah? Send me the address of where you’re staying.”
“This kid from the Marines was from here. Always talked about purple sunsets, red arches, and rocks. I’m camping, so no address.”
“How you have enough dough to get to Utah but not keep your phone on?”
“Who said I didn’t have enough to pay the bill?”
“You did. You said you were waiting for cash to come in.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t have enough.”
My head hurts. “I set up auto-pay on my card for your phone.”
“Hell, Salem.”
“Cancel it, and I’ll just set it up again. You have enough meds?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“You can’t disappear again, Denzel.” It kills us every time. I know he doesn’t mean to, but it does. I remind myself for the tenth time today that the latest cocktail of his meds works.
I hear the tone for an incoming call and lower the phone to peek at the screen.
“Send a pic of the red rocks, and call Mom and Dad,” I say.
