Page 73 of Misery
We'd been climbing the water tower on the edge of town, drunk on stolen beer and teenage invincibility.
He fell fifteen feet, landed wrong.
I set the bone myself because hospitals meant questions we couldn't answer.
Thiago.
The name sits heavy in my mouth like old blood.
Haven't thought about him in years. Haven't wanted to.
Some ghosts are better left buried, some memories better left to rot.
But here he is, walking into that flower shop downtown.
Hood up but not enough to hide from someone who knows him.
Someone who spent every summer from age seven to seventeen getting into trouble with him.
Someone who watched him go from stealing candy to stealing cars to worse things we swore we'd never talk about.
The timestamp on the footage makes my chest tight.
Three days ago.
While I was holding Elfe through her breakdown about her parents.
While I was promising to keep her safe.
Thiago was buying black roses to send her.
Preparing his next move in whatever sick game he's playing.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"Problem?" Vanir's voice comes from the doorway.
The club's tech expert looks like he hasn't slept—eyes red, clothes wrinkled, energy drink in hand.
His laptop bag is slung over his shoulder, already pulling it out before he's fully in the room.
"I need you to run a name."
He drops into a chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. Already pulling out his laptop. The thing's coveredin stickers—band logos, tech jokes, one that says 'I void warranties,' another claiming 'There's no place like 127.0.0.1.' "Shoot."
"Thiago Cisneros."
Vanir's fingers pause over the keys.
Something flickers across his face—recognition, maybe. Or maybe he remembers who he is. "Why does that sound familiar?"
"Because he grew up here. With me and Emil."
"I thought he died."
"So did I."
That's the story we were told.
