Table 13

TABLE 13 MIKE MCCRARY GET MORE STORIES FOR FREE! Thank you so much for reading this book. I’d like to invite you to my Reader’s Group, and give you one of my novels and three short stories for FREE. To join, head to Mike McCrary Reader’s Group. Best part? It won’t cost you a single penny. Click or tap here to join my Reader’s Group Mike McCrary CONTENTS Part I 1. NOW 2. Then Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Part II 7. NOW 8. THEN Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 12. NOW 13. THEN Chapter 14 Part III 15. A FEW YEARS AGO Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 21. NOW 22. THEN Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Part IV Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 31. THEN BECOMES NOW Chapter 32 33. ONE YEAR LATER If you liked this book… Also by Mike McCrary Acknowledgments About the Author I’m a product of this visionary mother and father. – Kiran Bedi Look, Pitbull is a product. – Pitbull PART ONE ONE NOW Henry Quinn's life ended the moment he met them. Just didn't know it. So easy to see now but impossible to know then. Still, he felt so damn stupid for not seeing what was coming, for not noticing what were probably blaring, screaming signs of things to come. Thoughts form only to burst, dissolving into mist as his head snaps back. The seat belt was solid. Did what it was supposed to do—stopped him from being thrown forward by the relentless momentum of the freshly crashed car. Kept him from sailing through the windshield and becoming one with a tree. But despite the seat belt's best efforts, his head raged forward, colliding with the factory-installed airbag before whipping back into the leather seat. Better than the alternative, but his neck will thank no one. Unfortunately, Henry has many wounds to deal with today. Friends call him Hank. The people he's running from call him Hank, too. They are not friends. They wanted something. Wanted too much. Fluids spit and spray out from under the hood like a tragic water show. Even through the driving rain, Hank can smell the automotive cocktail. An overpowering smell of gas mixed with a slight, sanitized stink of wiper fluid. The hood of the Audi A8 has been shoved back toward the windshield; looks like a crumpled napkin after a finished meal. An unforgiving tree stares back at Hank through spider-webbed cracks in the windshield. Rain streams down the bark. Feels like the tree is laughing at him. He can almost make out a face in the bark. Hank extends his middle finger. Letting the tree know who's boss around here, even though he can't feel anything in his hands. They—the not-friends of Hank—said their environment was a product of them. Not the other way around. They asked if he was a product of everything beyond his fingertips. Even after all that’s happened, Hank still has no idea. Thunder cracks. Lighting streaks. The storm pours in buckets over the wreckage. His mind floats. Sparks of memories. Slamming thoughts bordering on delusions. The world is a white, thick, gooey spread. Life has taken a beat to reflect upon what has happened. Upon what still can happen. Hank breathes in. Holds it. Considers and can't decide if he wants to continue breathing at all. Thoughts of family rip. His mom. Hints of his father. Images of smiles flash, then blur into laughter. There's the memory of drinks he had with a woman at a bar. The pang of knowing people care about him. Might be worried about him. The wind wraps around the twisted metal of the car. The world slides back to him while the car gurgles out its last bit of life. The ring in his ears has dulled. He can now hear the rattle and hum of the front tires still spinning. Hank exhales. A slow roll of blood snakes down his forehead. A creeping, streaming streak of crimson that's nearing a tricky decision. Move down the bridge of his nose or take a detour, risk getting caught up in the eyebrow. He remembers a blow to the head that almost ended him. Unsure how he's even alive. Hank presses the ignition, shutting down the car. Not sure why, just seems like the thing to do. There's a sharp pain in his arm. Blood soaks his shirt. He removes his seat belt. Can't believe he even had the forethought to put it on. It was hard to think straight, given his exit. The chaos of his not-friends. Pushing with all his strength, the door opens with a groan of steel. Hank spills out to the ground. Knees land hard, palms flat. Fingers tingle, but he can still feel the mix of pine needles and dirt peppered with blades of grass. Some form of ordinary is coming back as the car-crash adrenaline subsides. The hurt hits him all at once. Hard to parse out the pain. Impossible to identify what came from the crash, what came from them. Screaming faces. Crazed, frenzied eyes. Primal violence. The woods are peaceful beyond comprehension. The rain had slowed down. A dense, night sky save for the handful of stars poking holes in the dark. The moon serves as a massive spotlight shrouded in clouds for a moment. A wind blows a powerful gust, then eases into a cool breeze that pushes across his face. Feels incredible. Hank thinks of his mom. Get up. Move. He can't stay here long. They will find the car. Not sure how long he sat there. Did the wreck knock him out? He could have been there three minutes, could have been three hours. No way to know for sure. Are they on their way? Which one? Maybe both. Shoving himself off the ground, he sees the blood caked to his knuckles. Sprays and streaks up his arm.