Page 113 of Paint the Town, Dove

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So I marched to his house, backpack and a palm of dollar bills in hand (the “pinch change” again) and walked up Ryden’s driveway.

No cars around. Weird for a Sunday.

I knocked.

No one answered.

I knocked again.

No one answered.

I learned my lesson last time with Ryden clinging so close to life that I barged right the hell in, and there he was…

Sitting at the kitchen table.

Holding a piece of paper.

Completely, and utterly, removed.

***

I tapped the wall.

He didn’t react.

“Ryden?”

He didn’t respond.

As I marched closer, I could see that it was actually a long, pink sticky note, with money taped to the back of it.

I rounded the table, eyeing a church envelope, a set of keys and money. About a few hundred dollars from the look of it.

“She’s gone,” Ryden whispered so softly I could barely make out what he was saying.

“What?” I felt every bill, turned the envelope over. “What is all this?”

“She’s gone.” Another murmur.

“Is this school money?”

“SHE’S FUCKING GONE, MY MOM IS FUCKING GONE!!!!!!”

It felt like a knife slicing across my skin. I almost couldn’t believe it. But the proof… the existence of his words was splattered all over the table like a roadmap.

Why else would there be money? Keys? A letter?

Where are the cars? Where arethey?

“Ryden, there’s no way –”

But he was already up, crumpling the note and throwing the

first thing he saw across the room – it was a cereal bowl.

He muttered a string of curse words, throwing things around the room, destroying everything he touched. I moved in slow motion, bending down to pick up the note underneath the sink.

“FUCK YOU!” He repeated, “FUCK YOU,FUCK YOU,FUCK YOU…”

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