Page 2 of Fierce Hope
She pulled out of the lot, eyes drawn one final time to her mirror. Across the street, a car lurked beneath bare branches, headlights dark. An ember’s glow punctured the darkness—perhaps a cigarette, perhaps her imagination. She tightened her grip, knuckles bleaching against black leather. The church loomed in her reflection, its empty windows watching like distant judges. Funny how a sanctuary could feel so fragile sometimes.
No headlights followed. No shadows moved.
Still, the feeling lingered.
What darkness had she stirred? And why was she the target?
2
Deke Williams satat the small kitchen table, cradling a mug of lukewarm coffee, staring at the front page of the Hope Landing Gazette without really seeing it. The sharp blare of his son DJ’s alarm clock sliced through the thin morning quiet like a serrated knife.
He prayed for patience. He’d been fifteen himself once, though he didn’t recall having DJ’s anger. Too busy dreaming of a pro football career, maybe.
Upstairs, DJ silenced the alarm—not by turning it off, but by slamming his fist against it. The sudden thud echoed through the modest cabin, followed by the creak of bedsprings and muffled footsteps stomping across the floorboards.
Deke sighed, running a hand over his scruffy jaw, the grains of stubble as coarse as his patience.
“DJ, let’s go. Hustle up,” he called, voice gruff from more than just sleep. “Bus leaves in twenty minutes.”
Silence.
Finally, heavy footsteps thudded down the stairs. DJ appeared, hoodie up, earbuds in, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. His face was a mask of teenage resentment, perfected over months of practice.
“Morning,” Deke tried, keeping his tone neutral.
No response.
Deke fought the urge to push. But almost two months into their new domestic routine, he knew how that would go. DJ would snap. He would snap back, and they’d end up further from anything resembling connection.
Instead, he watched as his son grabbed a granola bar from the counter, ripping it open like it had personally offended him.
“Don’t forget your history project. It’s due today, right?”
DJ pulled out an earbud and shot him a glare. “I’m not an idiot.”
Deke clenched his jaw. At the moment that was open to debate, but Deke wasn’t dumb enough to pick that fight. “Good to know,” he muttered.
DJ rolled his eyes and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped, spun around, and snapped, “You know, I didn’t ask to be here.”
Deke didn’t flinch. He’d heard it before—different words, same bitterness. But it still landed like a gut punch.
“Yeah,” Deke replied quietly, “I didn’t ask to miss most of your life either.”
Regret hit the moment the words left his mouth.
DJ’s face hardened as he shoved the granola bar into his mouth. Without another word, he left, slamming the door.
The silence that followed was louder than the argument. The echo lingered longer than it should, like the final word in a battle Deke wasn’t sure how to win—if he even knew the rules anymore.
His grip tightened around the coffee mug until the ceramic groaned under the pressure, the warmth seeping into his palms, doing nothing to thaw the cold knot in his chest.
He rubbed the back of his neck.Nice one, Williams. Father of the Year.
His phone buzzed on the table. A new group chat from his team.
Kenji: Guys, we need to talk. URGENT.
Maya: What is it now? Did you bet on another curling match?
