"Hands In The Dark"
(Twelve Years Ago, Willow Creek's Elementary First Day)
Jackson, six years old and quiet as a held breath, sat cross-legged near the door of Ms. Avery's first-grade classroom. His sunflower-stitched backpack leaned against his knee, and his name tag, Jackson B., was looped in careful cursive pinned over his heart. His blonde hair was combed and shiny. His hands folded neatly in his lap.
But his eyes, they searched.
He'd been watching the hallway for someone, anyone, who might sit beside him.
What he got was a boy with a scabbed elbow and blood on his knuckles.
He stomped down the corridor like a one-man stampede. His black sneakers were two sizes too big, and the heel on one had been chewed half off, maybe by a dog, maybe by the road. His curls were stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his lower lip was split, already swelling. He looked like trouble in a size small.
He walked past Jackson, then turned and stared. "Why you sittin' like that?"
Jackson blinked. "Like what?"
"Like you fixin' to pray or somethin'. You some kinda church kid?"
Jackson straightened. "My Mama says I should sit up nice. And I ain't at church. I'm at school."
The boy scratched at his elbow. "Same thing, far as I can tell. Both full of folks tellin' you what not to do."
He dropped his bag with a thump and flopped onto the tile beside Jackson without asking. His legs stuck straight out in front of him, arms crossed like a boy preparing to be bored.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Jackson."
"Jackson what?"
"Bell."
The boy smirked. "As in Daisy Bell?"
Jackson's head tilted. "You know my Mama?"
"'Course I know her. Everybody in Willow Creek knows your Mama. She works at the Piggly Wiggly on Saturdays. Always buys the good peaches."
Jackson blinked, surprised.
"She's real pretty," the boy added. "Talks fast. Smells like oranges."
Jackson smiled. He couldn't help it. "That's her."
"I'm Cash," the boy said, sticking out his thumb like it was a handshake. "Cash Dalton."
Jackson took it. His hand was small and clean. Cash's was scraped and hot from the hallway fight.
"Cash like the singer?" Jackson asked.
"Exactly like the singer," Cash grinned, wide and gap-toothed. "Mama said if I got half his soul and none of his habits, I'd be fine."
Jackson's eyes brightened. "You live close?"
"Trailer just past the railroad tracks. Got a tin roof and a big ol' oak out front. If you drive by real slow, you'll see my sister out there skippin' rocks and screamin' at the squirrels."
"You got a sister?"
"Cassidy. We're twins. Tried to cut her own bangs last week. Looked like a raccoon with a lawnmower accident."
Jackson giggled, a soft, clean sound.
Cash smirked, then looked down at his hands.
"My Mama's real nice. Works nights at the diner. Makes the best damn cornbread you'll ever have. Don't tell your Mama I said that." Jackson shook his head slowly. "But Vernon…that's my stepdad," Cash's voice changed, just a touch. "He ain't nice. He drinks. And he yells. Some nights, he throws things. Some nights, he don't come home at all."
Jackson's smile faded. He didn't know what to say. No one had ever told him anything like that before.
Cash shrugged like it didn't matter.
"Last week, he broke my Walkie Talkie 'cause he said it beeped too loud. Then he told me boys who cry are 'faggots', whatever that means, so I punched the barn wall instead. Mama cleaned it up. Said I had fire in me. Said it'd burn me or save me, dependin' on how I use it."
Jackson was quiet for a moment. "You ever scared?" he asked, softly.
Cash didn't answer right away.
He picked at the dried blood on his knuckles. "I ain't scared. I just get...angry sometimes. Like there's a fist already made up in my chest, waitin' to hit somethin'."
Jackson nodded, solemn, even if he didn't understand it yet. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a tiny wrapped granola bar, the kind with chocolate chips.
"Want it?" he asked.
Cash took it with a muttered, "Hell yeah," and tore it open with his teeth.
Jackson watched him eat. "You can sit with me if you want. I don't mind."
Cash chewed for a minute, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
"Think I will," he said, licking a crumb off his thumb. "Least you ain't like the other kids."
"Like how?"
Cash glanced sideways at him, expression unreadable.
"You don't flinch."
*
Hours later, Jackson pedaled up the dirt path that led to the modest little house he called home. His bike wobbled, dust lifting behind the wheels. He could already smell supper. Daisy must've been in the kitchen. Probably frying something. She always fried something on a first day of school, like comfort could be cooked in peanut oil.
The house wasn't much.
A two-story rambler with chipped white paint, a porch that groaned under its own weight, and sunflowers wilting along the cracked walkway. But it had charm. Soul. Personality. Wind chimes tinkled from the eaves, and a string of plastic flamingos guarded the flowerbed like drunk soldiers.
Jackson hopped off the bike, letting it fall gently to the grass, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Then he froze.
There, sitting cross-legged on the porch swing like he'd always belonged there, was Cash, his curls messier than ever, his knees stained with grass and his face smug with satisfaction.
"What the hell?" Jackson gasped. "How'd you get here?"
Cash grinned, one corner of his lip still puffed from the earlier scuffle. "Followed you. On foot."
"Why?"
Cash shrugged, swinging gently. "Wanted to know where you lived. Thought maybe you were rich or somethin'. Figured if you had that many manners, you were sittin' on a gold bathtub or somethin'. I was wrong."
Jackson squinted, hands on his hips. "You're weird."
"You're weirder."
The screen door creaked open.
Daisy Bell stepped out in cut-off jeans, a tie-dye shirt, and house slippers shaped like pigs. A dish towel was slung over one shoulder, and her long, honey-blonde hair was tied in a messy knot on top of her head. She squinted into the setting sun, spotted the boys, and broke into a grin.
"Well, look at you two," she said, planting one hand on her hip. "Jackson, you bringin' home strays now?"
"Mama, this is..."
"I know who this is," she interrupted, stepping forward, drying her hands on the towel. "Cash Dalton. You're Cassidy's brother. Carla's boy, ain'tcha?"
Cash blinked. "Uh…y-yes, ma'am."
"Don't ma'am me. You want supper?"
Cash hesitated. "I…I don't wanna..."
"Boy, it's fried chicken and sweet potatoes. If you say no, I'll assume you you sick or sometin'."
Jackson stifled a laugh as Daisy threw open the screen door with a flick of her wrist and disappeared back inside.
Cash looked at Jackson, wide-eyed. "She always like that?"
Jackson shrugged. "Worse when she likes you."
They stepped inside together.
The house smelled like love, fried things, and lemon oil, the faintest trace of lavender from the candle always burning on the windowsill. There were photos on every wall: Jackson as a toddler in overalls, Daisy at his fifth birthday with cake in her hair, the two of them grinning like idiots at the state fair, clutching a giant stuffed pig.
Cash stopped in the middle of the living room and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. It wasn't fancy. But it was full of light. Of life.
"Nice place," he muttered.
Jackson flopped onto the couch, grinning. "We don't have a gold bathtub."
Cash smiled faintly. "Don't matter. Feels warm."
From the kitchen, Daisy called, "Y'all best wash those filthy paws before sittin' at my table! Jackson, you show your guest where the soap is!"
Jackson rolled his eyes but obeyed.
They scrubbed up at the little sink in the hallway bathroom, and by the time they made it to the kitchen, Daisy had already set the table: chicken piled high, biscuits buttered and steaming, greens glistening, and a pitcher of sweet tea sweating on a crocheted doily.
Cash sat down like he wasn't sure he was allowed to.
Daisy noticed.
She sat across from him, chin in hand, and gave him the warmest smile he'd ever seen. "You're welcome here anytime, sweetheart," she said, her voice gentler now. "Anytime."
Cash nodded, looking at the table. But Daisy saw the truth in his eyes. She saw the bruises he didn't name, the hunger that had nothing to do with food. She saw the armor on him, already hardening, and knew it was there because someone had taught him to be scared.
And then she looked at Jackson.
The way he watched Cash. The way he lit up with him in the room. Something settled in her chest, fierce and protective. That boy needed a place to land.
So Daisy did what she'd always done best.
"You boys got enough?" she asked as she surveyed the table like a queen before her court. "Jackson, you eatin' that chicken or just lettin' it admire you?"
Jackson grinned, mouth full. "I'm eatin'!"
"Coulda fooled me. That bird died for somethin', don't waste it."
She turned to Cash. "You like thighs or breasts?"
Cash froze mid-chew, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
Jackson choked on a laugh.
Daisy rolled her eyes. "Lord, child, I mean chicken. Don't get red in the face."
Cash, cheeks now crimson, swallowed hard. "Uh...uh, thighs, I guess."
Daisy smirked. "Good choice. That's where the flavor lives."
She dropped another onto his plate without ceremony and leaned on the table with her elbows, watching him.
"So," she said, voice softening, "you're Cassidy Dalton's twin, huh? She's a spitfire, that one. Last week she told the pastor's wife her peach cobbler tasted like soggy bread."
Cash nodded, still chewing.
"Your mama, she the one works nights at that diner off Old Pine?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"She sweet. Always lookin' half-dead tired. You look out for her?"
"I try."
Daisy's smile dimmed just a touch. "What about your stepdaddy?" she asked, keeping her tone light but watchful.
Cash hesitated. His fork scraped his plate, and his gaze dropped. "He…he ain't around much."
Daisy nodded slowly. "Mmm. And when he is?"
Cash shrugged.
She didn't press.
Didn't have to.
Instead, she reached across the table and refilled his tea.
"Well, this house here's got two rules," she said, suddenly chipper again. "Rule number one: You eat until you can't breathe. Rule number two: Ain't nobody here gonna make you feel small. You got a seat at this table as long as you want it, hear?"
Cash looked up, unsure if he should smile or cry.
He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Daisy winked. "Good. Now stop callin' me ma'am before I start feelin' like a church lady."
Jackson piped up. "She don't even go to church. She says she don't trust men in robes tellin' women how to behave."
"Damn right I said that," Daisy declared, pointing her fork like a weapon. "That man hasn't folded laundry in twenty years and wants to preach at me about submission? I'll submit a complaint."
Jackson laughed.
Cash did too.
And for a moment, there was no bruised lip, no bad houses, no yelling stepfathers.
Just food and warmth and a woman with a big heart who saw more than she let on.
It wasn't long before the last bite of cornbread was gone, and the sweet tea pitcher had been drained down to melting ice.
Daisy pushed back from the table, her chair groaning beneath her as she stretched. "Well," she said with a satisfied sigh, "that was real fine. But I reckon it's gettin' late, and you boys got school again tomorrow. Cash, you want me to run you home?"
Cash's head snapped up. For the first time all night, that calm, country swagger cracked.
His chair screeched back as he stood abruptly. "Nah, I...I should go," he said, voice a little too quick. "I can walk. Ain't but a few blocks."
Daisy blinked, clearly surprised. "Honey, it's dark out. You sure? I don't mind none."
Cash was already backing toward the door, grabbing his ratty backpack from where it leaned against the wall. "It's fine. I do it all the time."
His eyes darted briefly to Jackson, but not long enough to hold. Jackson stood too, watching him, eyes full of quiet questions he didn't know how to ask yet.
Cash offered a half-smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks for dinner, Miss Daisy. It was real good. Better'n anything I ever had."
Daisy walked him to the door, concern flickering in her expression like a candle nearly snuffed out. "Don't let the armadillos get ya," Daisy called gently.
But he was gone, feet pounding the dirt, fading down the road like a ghost that didn't want to be chased. Jackson stood in the doorway, staring after him. He hadn't said a word. But his whole body leaned slightly forward, like something inside him wanted to follow.
Daisy came up beside him. "Boy runs like he's got the devil at his heels," she murmured, folding her arms over her chest.
Jackson didn't answer.
He just kept looking into the dark.
Daisy tilted her head, studying her son. "You like him," she said.
Jackson glanced at her, startled. "What?"
She smiled, easy and warm. "I mean you like havin' him around. I can tell."
Jackson lowered his eyes. "Yeah. He's…cool."
"Mmhm." She ruffled his hair, smirking. "So are you."
He squirmed. "Mama."
"Alright, alright," she laughed, nudging him toward the hall. "Now go brush your teeth. I ain't raisin' no boy with bad gums."
As Jackson padded away, barefoot and thoughtful, Daisy lingered in the doorway a moment longer. She looked out into the night where Cash had vanished. Her smile faded, replaced by something quieter. Sadder.
Then she shut the door.
And the little house in Willow Creek folded itself around them again, safe, warm, waiting.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Cash's sneakers slapped the ground as he ran. The Bell house was a warm dream behind him now, too sweet, too golden to be real. He'd sat at a table where the food was hot and the words were kind, and for a fleeting moment, he'd forgotten the way the world usually tasted.
But he didn't get to keep dreams like that.
Not boys like him.
He sprinted past rusted mailboxes and crooked fences, past barking dogs on fraying leashes and the buzz of a busted streetlamp blinking above the entrance to the trailer park like it was ashamed of its own glow. The double-wide he called home sat at the end of the gravel loop. Its skirting was half-rotted. One window was duct-taped with plastic. The front steps tilted sideways, like they, too, wanted to run.
And from inside, he heard it.
"I SAID WHERE THE HELL'S MY DAMN BOTTLE?!"
Cash froze in the dark, every muscle in his body snapping tight like piano wire. His breath caught in his throat, heart thudding like a fist against his ribs.
Then came the crash.
Glass shattering.
A scream.
"Cash!"
It was a whisper, urgent, terrified.
From behind the next trailer, a small figure darted out. Cassidy, barefoot in a T-shirt and shorts, her dark curls tangled, cheeks stained with tears and dirt. She grabbed Cash's wrist hard enough to bruise.
"He's doin' it again!" she hissed.
Cash didn't hesitate. He grabbed her hand and yanked her behind the rusted single-wide next door, the one with the busted swing set and no porch light. They ducked down behind the metal siding, crouching low in the grass. The air smelled like iron and old rain.
They listened.
More yelling.
Another crash.
Then something heavier, a thud.
Cassidy flinched. "What if this time he don't stop?" she whispered, her voice small and trembling.
Cash didn't answer. He was too busy staring ahead, jaw locked, eyes hollow. Rage, already familiar at six years old, boiled behind his ribs.
Cassidy tugged on his shirt sleeve. "Cash…will you pray with me?" He turned to look at her. Her eyes were wide and shining, like two full moons trying not to spill over. "I'll say it. You just… say it after me."
He swallowed.
Then nodded.
Cassidy closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to her clasped hands. Cash did the same, though clumsily, copying her posture like a game he wasn't sure he knew the rules to.
"Dear God…" she began, voice barely above the crickets.
Cash echoed, "Dear God…"
"Please don't let Mama die."
"Please don't let Mama die…"
"Make Vern fall asleep real fast."
"Make that fucker fall asleep…" Cash repeated. Cassidy's left eye darted his way.
"And if he don't wake up tomorrow…" Cassidy paused. Then whispered, "That's okay too."
Cash didn't repeat that part. But he didn't stop her.
They sat there, quiet in the dirt, their knees touching, hands clutched tight to each other and a God they weren't sure was listening.
Somewhere above, the yelling slowed.
A final thud.
Then nothing.
Just the wind rattling the chain-link fence.
And the sound of two children, praying for peace in a world that didn't know how to give it.
*
The Piggly Wiggly's old ceiling fans creaked and hummed like a tired gospel choir. Daisy Bell maneuvered her shopping cart down the produce aisle in flip-flops, her tank top clinging to her back from the heat and her sunglasses pushed up into her golden hair.
She wasn't in a hurry. Saturdays were for browsing, for talking to Miss Loretta by the cantaloupes, for checking the clearance rack even though she didn't need a thing from it. She hummed to herself as she tossed a bag of rice into the cart, her mood light after a morning spent folding laundry and teasing Jackson over toast.
She turned the corner into Aisle Five, canned goods and baking flour, and stopped.
Standing in front of the cornbread mixes, clutching a basket like it might float her away, was Carla Dalton. Cash and Cassidy's mother. She looked smaller than Daisy remembered, shoulders hunched in a way that seemed permanent now. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, and her sunglasses hung low on her nose, not fashionably, but strategically.
Daisy's eyes, keen as ever, saw it before Carla could hide it: the purple shadow blooming along her cheekbone, just below her left eye.
And for a moment, the grocery store fell away.
Daisy stepped forward gently, her voice soft, warm, not pitying. "Carla?"
The woman flinched at her name.
She turned slowly, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. "Daisy," she said, like the word was fragile. "Didn't expect to see you."
"I live in this place," Daisy said with a smile, gesturing to her cart full of eggs, cornstarch, and Jackson's favorite cereal.
Carla tried to laugh, but it came out too tight. "Yeah. Guess you do."
There was an awkward pause.
Daisy, never one to dance around the truth, leaned on her cart and lowered her voice. "You alright, sugar?"
Carla stiffened. "'Course I'm alright."
"That so?" Daisy asked gently, eyes locking on hers.
Carla looked away. "I just..." she swallowed. "Walked into the screen door last night. Clumsy as always."
Daisy didn't say anything. She just nodded, slow and knowing.
"Funny thing about screen doors," she finally murmured. "They don't usually hit back."
Carla's throat moved as she swallowed again. Her fingers twisted the handle of the basket until her knuckles turned white. "Look," she whispered, "I know what folks say. But it ain't that simple."
"I know it ain't," Daisy said. Carla glanced at her then, wary. Daisy continued, her voice steady but soft. "You ain't gotta tell me nothin'. And I ain't here to fix what ain't mine to fix. But I see you. And I see your babies. I seen that boy of yours yesterday, sitting in my kitchen like he hadn't eaten in a week. You know what I thought?"
Carla blinked, silent.
"I thought he's tryin' so hard to be a man he ain't even had a chance to be a boy."
Carla winced.
Daisy stepped closer, her tone more tender than it had ever been. "You don't owe me nothin', Carla. But if ever you need somewhere safe, someone to talk to, hell, just a quiet place to sit, my door's open. That's all."
Carla looked away again, her lips trembling like they wanted to form a thank you but didn't know how.
Daisy touched her arm gently, briefly, and then backed away. "I'll let you finish your shoppin'."
She didn't wait for an answer. She just smiled one more time, soft, not pushy, and turned her cart back toward the checkout. Behind her, Carla stayed still, staring down at a box of Jiffy mix like it held the answer to everything. But in her other hand, for the first time in a long while, her fingers were unclenched.
*
(One Week Later)
The final bell rang like a starter pistol, and Jackson Bell was already halfway out of his seat before the sound finished echoing through the halls of Willow Creek Elementary. His books were clutched tight against his chest, his face flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the humidity.
Cash hadn't come to school.
Not for homeroom. Not for recess. Not even for lunch, where he usually strutted through the cafeteria like a rooster in a henhouse, joking too loud and stealing bites off Jackson's tray like it was his God-given right.
Jackson had waited. And waited. But his seat stayed empty. The worry crawled under Jackson's skin like fire ants. Cash hadn't said a word about it yesterday. No plan. No reason. Just absence. So Jackson did the only thing he could think to do.
He pedaled.
He took the long road down County Line, dust puffing up behind his back tire, the wind tugging at the hem of his shirt and the curls falling loose from under his ballcap. His legs pumped harder with every turn of the wheels, muscles aching with urgency, his heart somewhere in his throat.
He'd never been down this way before.
He'd passed it in the car with Daisy, sure. She always sped up a little, hands tighter on the steering wheel. Sometimes she'd mutter something under her breath like "God help the children in places like that."
Jackson hadn't understood what she meant.
Now he did.
As he rolled past the rusting gate of the Willow Creek Trailer Park, something inside him shifted. The road turned from smooth asphalt to crushed gravel. The air felt different here. Heavier. Motionless. Like sound didn't bounce the same. Like voices got caught in the trees and hung there like ghosts. It was quiet in a way Jackson wasn't used to.
Not peaceful quiet.
Stifled quiet.
Trailers lined the narrow loop in faded rows, some slumped to one side like tired shoulders, others patched with tarps and duct tape, broken toys scattered across dry grass, windows dark behind dusty blinds. A washing machine sat like a tombstone in one yard. A broken swing rocked slowly in another, moving with no wind to push it. And there was a smell, grease, oil, something burnt and distant. Not unpleasant. But exhausted. Jackson swallowed hard, riding slower now, uncertain of which trailer was theirs.
This place wasn't like home.
This was survival dressed up like normal.
Jackson coasted his bike down the narrow gravel lane. He passed a woman out front of one, older, thin, smoking a long cigarette with chipped pink nails. She wore a housedress and flip-flops, her eyes half-lidded from the heat or the pills, or both. She squinted at him, clearly not used to seeing blonde-haired, well-scrubbed boys like Jackson Bell in a place like this.
He cleared his throat, stopping beside her clothesline. "Ma'am, I...I'm lookin' for the Dalton's place. You know where it is?"
The woman puffed out smoke and tilted her head lazily toward the back of the loop. "Double-wide, end of the row. Rusted door, busted porch light." Jackson started to thank her, but she raised a hand, cutting him off. "But listen here, sugar. You might wanna come back another time. Ain't exactly a good day for visitors."
Something tightened in Jackson's stomach. But Jackson didn't leave. He pushed his bike the rest of the way. And then, he heard it. At first, just muffled voices. A man's voice, slurred and angry. Then a crash.
And then, CRACK.
Jackson froze.
Another sound followed. A low, guttural cry that he knew in his bones.
Cash.
And then it came again.
CRACK.
The sound of leather snapping against flesh, followed by a grunt, and a boy's voice choked with fury and pain. "I said I didn't touch it, you piece of shit!"
Jackson's breath caught.
He stepped closer, eyes wide. The noise was coming from the back of the trailer, just beyond the side yard littered with overturned chairs and beer cans.
"Think you're a man now, boy?" the man's voice bellowed, soaked in whiskey. "Back-talkin' me like you got balls? I'll beat 'em right off ya."
Another crack. Jackson flinched. Something inside him snapped like a wire pulled too tight. He dropped his bike and ran around the side of the trailer. Jackson crouched low near the base of the aluminum siding, hidden by the weeds and busted AC unit. He couldn't see clearly, but he didn't need to. He heard Cash's voice, raw and shaking, trying to breathe through the pain. And he heard the sound of a belt again.
Again.
Again.
Jackson's fists clenched, and he took a step forward. But then a voice, small and urgent, hissed from behind him.
"Don't." Jackson spun around. Cassidy was there, crouched low in the weeds, her eyes wide with panic. Her bare knees were scraped and dirty, her whole little body trembling. "If you go in there, he'll turn on you too," she whispered. Jackson's throat tightened. "He's drunk," Cassidy said. "That's when he's the worst."
Jackson stared at her. Then toward the trailer.
Then, at last, silence.
No more shouting.
No more belt.
Only the buzz of a lawnmower somewhere in the distance and the creak of a busted wind chime hanging from the neighbor's gutter. Jackson exhaled for the first time in minutes. His palms were slick with sweat and dirt, his whole body shaking as though he'd been the one beaten.
Cassidy tugged his arm. "He's prob'ly passed out now."
Jackson stood slowly and nodded. He rounded the trailer quietly as he moved toward the back yard. And that's when he saw him. Cash. Inside the wire fencing of the dog pen. There was no dog. Just Cash, curled against the far side, arms draped over his knees, his back bare. His shirt had been stripped off, balled up in one corner of the pen. His skin was marked, red and raw, dark lines blooming across his shoulder blades like cruel paint strokes. Blood trickled in thin, bright lines from his elbow and across one side of his ribs.
He looked like he didn't even realize he was still breathing. Cash lifted his head slowly, and for a moment his eyes looked dazed, like maybe Jackson was just another dream he wouldn't get to keep.
Then his gaze focused. A flicker of relief. Or shame. "Why'd you come here?" he rasped.
Jackson didn't answer. He stepped forward, unlatching the gate with hands that trembled. He slipped inside, kneeling down beside him. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's get outta here."
Cash looked away, jaw clenched so tight his teeth could've cracked. "He'll come lookin'. You don't know what he's like."
"I don't give a damn what he's like." There was fire in Jackson's voice now. He reached for Cash's arm and pulled it gently over his shoulder. Cash hissed through his teeth but didn't stop him. Together they rose, slowly, unsteadily. "Come on," Jackson whispered. "We'll be fast."
Cassidy opened the pen's door wider, her eyes rimmed with red but focused. She held out her arms to steady them.
The three of them didn't say another word.
They slipped out past the trailer's edge like shadows, skirting behind fences and overgrown hedges, past piles of old tires and laundry lines, their bare feet silent in the soft dirt. When they reached the end of the trailer park, Cassidy pulled back the chain-link fence, and they ducked through the gap.
Then, they ran.
Down into the wide-open field. Everything smelled like wild clover and old hay. The wind lifted strands of their hair, cooling their sweat-slick skin. They didn't stop running until they reached the far hill, where an old wooden fence lay half-collapsed. There, beneath the leaning shade of a pecan tree, they dropped to the earth.
Cash collapsed first, landing on his side with a groan. Jackson crouched beside him again, checking his back. Cassidy sat across from them, hugging her knees again. Her face was blank now, too tired for tears.
The sky above turned lavender.
The field held its breath.
Cash slowly rolled on his stomach, head resting on his folded arms. Jackson sat cross-legged beside him, wiping at the raw lines on Cash's back with the edge of his sleeve, his own shirt offered without question. Cassidy lay nearby, flat on her back in the grass now, watching the clouds twist overhead like they were trying to form shapes just for her.
Cash didn't flinch. He didn't cry. But Jackson could feel the way his breathing hitched each time the cloth of his shirt passed over a wound.
"You shouldn't've come," Cash murmured at last, voice low against the ground. Jackson kept dabbing at a particularly bad cut. No uttering a word. "You think you're some kinda hero?" Cash said, half a sneer curling in the corner of his mouth. "Ridin' in on your little blue Schwinn?" Jackson didn't answer. He just wrung the bloodstained sleeve and kept working. "You don't know what it's like," Cash continued. "You got a mama who hugs you. A house with curtains and soap that smells like flowers. You go to sleep knowin' nobody's gonna come through your door drunk with a belt in their hand."
There was silence.
Cash swallowed hard. "I ain't soft."
"I know."
"I don't need pity."
"I know."
"Then why're you lookin' at me like that?"
Jackson hesitated. "Like what?"
Cash glanced at him, sharp and searching. "Like I ain't messed up."
Jackson held his gaze.
Cassidy rolled onto her side and snorted. "You're a little messed up."
Cash threw a clump of grass at her, and she ducked with a grin. "Shut up," he muttered.
"I'm just sayin'," she said, hands in the air. "You're tough and mean, and you got them crazy eyes like Vern, but...you ain't broken. Not like him."
Jackson smiled faintly. Cash grunted, laying his head back down. For a while, the three of them were quiet.
Then Jackson spoke, barely above the breeze. "Does it always hurt this much?"
Cash didn't look up. "Not the belt."
"I meant…" Jackson faltered. "Feelin' like this. Watchin' someone you care about get hurt and not bein' able to stop it."
Cash was quiet for a long beat. "Yeah."
Cassidy, still staring at the sky, added, "But sometimes, it helps if someone holds your hand after."
Cash rolled his eyes. "You want me to hold your hand now, Cass?"
She shrugged. "Only if you quit bein' an ass."
Jackson chuckled softly, brushing Cash's hair from his eyes with the edge of his hand. Cash didn't pull away.
"You a'ight, Jackson Bell," Cash muttered, more to the dirt than to them.
And just like that, something shifted.
Not healed.
Not fixed.
But changed.
*
(Two Weeks Later)
The midday sun dribbled over the clapboard siding of the Bell house, wrapping the porch in a warm, syrupy haze. Inside, the kitchen buzzed with noise. Daisy Bell stood barefoot in front of the stove, a tea towel slung over one shoulder and a cast-iron skillet in her hand. She wore a pearl white dress and had her hair up in a messy twist that still somehow looked good enough for church.
"Don't you dare open that oven yet, Cassidy Dalton!" Daisy hollered without looking, flipping a slice of catfish.
"I wasn't gonna!" Cassidy called back from where she stood near the fridge, hands behind her back, eyes wide with mock innocence.
"Yes you were," Jackson said, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and smirking. "I saw you," he added, lifting his eyebrows. "You was hoverin' like a buzzard on roadkill."
Cassidy stuck her tongue out. "I was just checkin' if the cornbread was talkin' yet!"
"You check it again and it'll scream," Daisy muttered, slamming the skillet down like a judge's gavel. "Y'all are worse than wild dogs when there's food involved."
Cash, sitting stiffly at the far end of the table, tried to hide the way he smiled. He'd been quiet since arriving, sitting with his shoulders a little too straight and his eyes a little too wide, like a guest who didn't believe he was welcome. He glanced toward the window where his Mama stood on the porch, holding a glass of sweet tea in one hand and her other arm across her middle like she didn't quite know what to do with herself.
She'd dressed up, in her own quiet way. A clean blouse. Lipstick. Hair pinned neatly behind her ears. And though the bruise on her cheek was fading, her shame still lingered like smoke after a fire.
Daisy had greeted her like she was royalty.
No questions.
No judgment.
Just that warm Daisy Bell kind of welcome that made you forget you ever flinched when someone raised their voice. "Jackson," Daisy said suddenly, "go grab the lemonade from the porch. Cash, you get them cups off the sideboard."
Cash blinked. "Uh, yes ma'am."
Daisy's head turned sharp. "Now what did I tell you about callin' me 'ma'am'? I'm not old enough for ma'am. Makes me sound like I should be teachin' Bible school and wearin' orthopedic sandals."
Cash smiled a little more openly. "Yes...uh...Daisy."
"Better," she said, nodding, though her mouth twitched.
Jackson passed him on the way to the door, bumping his shoulder lightly. "See? You're gettin' broken in just fine."
"Like a stray dog," Cassidy added helpfully.
"Speak for yourself," Cash muttered, grabbing the cups. "Y'all are lucky I even came."
"You didn't come," Cassidy shot back. "You were lured."
"Only 'cause Jackson's mama said there'd be peach cobbler."
"Which there will be," Daisy declared. "If y'all stop yappin' long enough to eat the lunch first."
As the table filled with food, fried catfish, black-eyed peas, cornbread baked golden and perfect, and bowls of sliced tomatoes with sugar and salt, Cash couldn't stop watching the way everyone moved. There was laughter, teasing, forks clinking, Cassidy spilling sweet tea, Jackson slapping his hand away from the biscuits.
And no yelling.
No flinching.
No silence dense with fear.
Just being.
Cash chewed slowly, staring at his plate longer than he needed to.
"You alright?" Jackson asked beside him, voice low.
Cash shrugged. "Ain't used to this kinda food."
"What kinda food you used to then?"
Cash glanced up, deadpan. "Burnt."
Jackson grinned. "Well, this is fried in love and butter, so you better lick your plate clean."
"I don't lick plates."
"I do," Jackson said proudly, licking a dab of syrup from his thumb. "Mama says I eat like I'm kissin' the cook."
Cash let out a little huff of a laugh. It caught in his throat like it didn't know how to come out right. "Just feels…different here."
Jackson tilted his head. "Different good or different weird?"
"Both," Cash admitted, eyes flicking around the room like it might disappear if he looked at it too long. "Your house smells like cinnamon and clean laundry."
Jackson grinned. "You should smell it at Christmas."
Cash hesitated. "You got a tree?"
"Big one. Mama goes all out. We got lights too, and this old angel topper she swears is cursed 'cause it always leans left." Cash smiled. A real one this time. Soft and crooked. Jackson leaned in closer. "You can come over when we put it up this year. If you want."
Cash blinked. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You can help hang the ugly popcorn garland Mama makes every year even though it always gets eaten by ants."
Cash nodded, a little too fast. "A'ight."
Jackson looked down, ears turning pink.
Across the table, Daisy caught the glance between them. Her eyes softened. Then she stood up and clapped her hands. "Alright! After lunch, we're hitting the porch. Play dominos as God intended. Carla, I hope you can count, 'cause these kids cheat like the devil."
*
(Hours Later)
The sun had long since dipped behind the pines, and the Mississippi twilight wrapped the yard in a warm velvet hush.
Outside, Daisy and Carla gabbed over sweet tea. Cassidy had her bare feet propped on the rail, hair damp from the garden hose. Jackson leaned against the swing with a glass of lemonade, while Cash sat beside him, shoulders finally loose, his expression soft in a way few people had ever seen.
Even Carla laughed, real and bright, for the first time in what felt like years. She and Daisy had been shelling peas at the little wicker table, their hands working in rhythm, their conversation a blend of kitchen gossip and woman-worn wisdom.
Then Daisy stood up with a little sigh.
"Y'all keep carryin' on," she said, brushing her hands on her apron. "I'm fixin' to get more sweet tea before y'all suck the pitcher dry like desert vipers."
She disappeared inside, humming under her breath.
The porch rocked gently in her absence.
And then the sound came.
Gravel. Tires. Too fast.
A pair of headlights tore through the stillness, blinding everyone as a rusted silver Buick veered off the road and skidded to a stop half-on the grass, the bumper crooked and the engine growling like it had a bone to pick.
Jackson stood up straighter, the laughter gone from his throat.
Cash followed.
The driver's side door flew open with a metallic groan. And out stepped a man that smelled like rotgut and gasoline. Vernon. A beast of a man, even from twenty feet away, thick-necked, balding, his stained work shirt half-buttoned and his jeans crusted with grease and tobacco spit. His face glowed red in the headlights, mouth already twisted into a rage.
"Carla!" he roared, voice cracking like a whip across the yard. "Get your ass in the car right now!"
Everyone froze.
Cassidy scrambled up, grabbing Carla's arm. Cash had already stepped in front of his mother, fists clenched, his whole body suddenly electric with old fear.
Carla didn't move.
Vernon stormed up the walkway, spittle flying from his mouth. "You think you can just walk out? Come play house with these heifers? Huh? You think that's how this works, you fuckin' bitch?!"
"Leave," Carla said softly, but her voice cracked, the strength not quite there.
"I said, get in the goddamn car!" he growled, and in the same moment, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward so hard she stumbled into him.
"Hey!" Cash yelled, moving like he meant to tear Vernon apart.
But the man had Carla by the arm now, dragging her toward the car, shoving past the porch steps, muttering curses, threats, promises of what he'd do once they got home.
And then, the screen door slammed. The porch light caught the gleam of something long and metal. And there stood Daisy Bell, framed in the doorway like the wrath of God herself. Barefoot, eyes steady, hair falling loose around her shoulders. Holding a shotgun.
"Get your damn hands off that woman, Vernon Ridge," she said, her voice calm, steady as granite. "Or I swear to every angel that ever walked this Earth, I'll blow the stink off your soul and leave what's left for the crows."
The yard went silent.
Even the crickets stopped.
Vernon froze, mid-step. Carla whimpered. Cassidy pressed her hands to her mouth. Cash didn't move, his eyes locked on Daisy, his jaw trembling. Jackson took one slow step closer, his breath caught between fear and awe.
Daisy didn't lower the barrel.
She didn't blink.
And her hands weren't shaking.
She held it like she was born with it, like it had been passed down to her not from a store, but from generations of women who'd had enough.
Vernon turned to face her, still gripping Carla's wrist. But something in him faltered. Not just from the barrel aimed at his gut. It was Daisy's eyes. Sharp. Like two chips of pale green ice pulled straight from the heart of a snake that never missed its mark.
"Now, now, Vern," Daisy began, her voice silk over steel, "I'm gonna give you the grace of not pretendin' you weren't raised by swamp scum and shoe polish. But I'll be damned if I let you drag your sorry carcass up my lawn, throw around your chest like some kind of man, and put your hands on a woman in front of me."
She stepped down from the porch, barefoot on the grass, not even noticing the burrs.
"I seen men like you before. Loud in the mouth, limp in the spine. Always screamin' 'bout respect, but you wouldn't know how to spell the word if I carved it into your forehead."
Vernon snarled. "She's my..."
"She's nothin' of yours," Daisy snapped, eyes flashing. "You didn't build her. You didn't protect her. You damn sure didn't love her. You just drank yourself full of piss and vinegar and thought that gave you permission to tear things down just 'cause you're too sorry to build somethin' real."
She cocked the shotgun, slow and deliberate. The click echoed like thunder in the hush of the yard.
"You touch her again, and I'll put you down so clean you won't even get a funeral, just a headstone that says 'Here Lies Vernon Ridge: Yelled Once Too Loud.'"
Vernon's grip loosened. Carla stepped back, breath shaking.
"You think you scare me, Bell?" Vernon hissed, but it was weaker now, the edges of his bravado fraying like an old rope.
Daisy leaned in just enough to make him flinch. "Boy, I been scared. You ain't it."
She pointed the barrel toward the Buick. "Now I suggest you drag your two-dollar dignity back into that rust heap and drive off before I call Sheriff Donnie, who owes me three favors and a peach cobbler. And I'll make sure he finds a reason to throw your ass in a cell where even the roaches'll be embarrassed to share a bunk."
Vernon hesitated. "Fuckin' crazy bitch," he muttered. Then, he spat on the ground, turned on his heel, and stormed back to his car. The Buick door slammed. Gravel kicked up behind the tires. And then he was gone.
Silence fell like a curtain.
Everyone else just stared, stunned.
But Jackson?
Jackson was calm.
Because he'd seen his Mama like this before.
And he knew better than anyone.
You don't cross Daisy Bell.
She stood there a moment longer, shoulders high, barrel still raised, before finally lowering the gun and turning to Carla. "You and the kids stay here tonight," she said, as gently as if nothing had just happened before walking back into the house like she hadn't just burned a man down with nothing but her words and a kitchen apron.
*
Cassidy lay curled up in Daisy's bed, her little fists tucked beneath her chin, breath rising and falling slow as a prayer. Upstairs, in Jackson's room, the boys lay in silence, not speaking, but not sleeping either.
In the kitchen, a single lamp glowed over the table. Daisy poured two mugs of sweet tea and slid one toward Carla, who sat stiffly, hands clasped in her lap like she was still bracing for impact.
"You want somethin' stronger," Daisy said, "I got a bottle stashed behind the flour tin. Don't tell Jesus."
Carla gave the tiniest laugh, but it fizzled before it reached her eyes. "I still feel him," she whispered, tracing the rim of her mug. "Like the weight of his hand's still on my arm."
Daisy didn't speak right away.
She stirred her tea. Slowly. Like her words were steeping. "I used to feel that way," she said at last. "About Jackson's daddy."
Carla looked up, startled.
Daisy nodded. "He wasn't like Vernon. Not loud. Not drunk. Not all the time, anyway. But he was mean in quieter ways. That kind of man that made you feel like your light took up too much space. Like your laugh was too loud. Like your body was somethin' to apologize for."
Carla swallowed, blinking fast.
"He left when Jackson turned two," Daisy went on. "I looked at that boy, still nappin' in a diaper, and thought, I ain't gonna raise him to think love feels like bein' afraid all the time."
Carla blinked down at the tea, then whispered, "I don't know how."
"Don't know how to leave?"
Carla nodded. Her hands trembled. "Where would I go? I got nothin' but a purse full of receipts, two kids, and a bruise I keep pretendin' is not there."
"You got more than that," Daisy said, her voice firmer now. "You got a daughter who sleeps with her hand tucked in her heart. And a son who's tryin' so hard to be strong, he don't even know he's still a boy."
Carla covered her face. "God, I messed them up, didn't I?"
"No," Daisy said, reaching across the table to touch her wrist. "He did."
Silence settled again.
Daisy's thumb rubbed gently against Carla's hand. "I ain't tellin' you it's gonna be easy. Lord knows the world don't roll out carpets for women like us. But you can leave. And if you don't know how, well…I got a spare bedroom in the back, enough cornbread for an army, and a shotgun I ain't afraid to swing."
Carla smiled again.
This time it stayed longer.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Jackson lay on his side, staring at the moonlit ceiling. The fan above him turned in slow, sleepy circles.
Down on the floor, a pile of blankets and an old pillow cushioned Cash's frame. He had one arm folded behind his head, the other draped across his chest, fingers twitching every so often like he was wrestling dreams he hadn't even fallen into yet. They hadn't said much since climbing the stairs. Just the occasional clearing of a throat. The creak of the mattress when Jackson shifted. Cash's sigh when he tried, and failed, for the third time to find a comfortable spot.
Then, in the soft dark. "You still awake?" Jackson asked, voice just above a whisper.
"Yeah."
A pause.
"Can't sleep?"
"Can't stop thinkin'."
Jackson looked over the edge of the bed, peeking down. "Thinkin' 'bout tonight?"
Cash nodded in the dark. "Mostly about what comes next."
Jackson was quiet a moment. "You think your mama'll really stay here?"
"I dunno," Cash said, voice hoarse. "I hope so. But...that man don't give up easy."
"He comes back," Jackson murmured, "Mama'll shoot his ass into next week."
Cash gave a low chuckle. "Yeah...she's somethin', ain't she?"
"She's the whole damn sky."
They both smiled, though neither could see it.
Jackson turned on his side again, now facing the wall. "You ever feel like...like you was holdin' somethin' heavy all the time? Not just in your arms. Like, in your chest."
"Yeah," Cash said softly. "All the time."
Jackson was quiet again, his voice thin when it returned. "Well... if you gotta carry it, then I'll carry some too. We can...I don't know...carry each other's stuff."
Cash blinked up at the ceiling, breath catching just slightly. For a while, they said nothing. Just the sound of the fan. The wind against the glass. Then, Jackson reached one arm down off the bed, fingers hanging open in the dark like a question waiting to be answered. Cash stared at that hand for a long time. Then he reached up. And held it. Not like a handshake. Like a promise.
And just like that, the heaviness eased.
Two boys.
One bed.
One floor.
And one moment they'd carry with them the rest of their lives.
They fell asleep like that.
*
(Present Time)
Jackson slammed the door behind him hard enough to make the floorboards shudder. The lamp on his desk flickered. He didn't notice. Didn't care.
He paced the room like a panther in a too-small cage, shirt already half-untucked, boots kicked off somewhere near the dresser. His hands raked through his golden hair, still damp with sweat and the night air, and his chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.
"Stupid," he hissed. "Goddamn stupid."
He hated how close he'd gotten. How quickly he'd broken. One look from Blake Buckley and his skin had felt like it might peel right off his bones. He stopped at the edge of his bed and cursed again, quieter this time. A whisper soaked in shame. What the hell was wrong with him, he thought?
He yanked off his shirt, flung it toward the corner, then unfastened his jeans with sharp, jerking fingers. They slid down his hips and hit the floor, pooling around his feet like a surrender. He stepped out of them, leaving only the white cotton of his briefs clinging to his sweat-warmed skin. He collapsed onto the bed, face-first, limbs spread, the cool cotton sheets catching on his bare thighs.
The room was dark. Moonlight poured in through the blinds in slatted silver ribbons across the wooden floor. Outside, the crickets buzzed. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked.
But all Jackson could hear was Blake's voice, low and rough like whiskey against the throat.
"You look like an angel with that hair and them eyes...but you got the heart of a bull, don't you?"
Jackson shut his eyes, and the memory of those words sent a ripple through him. Blake had been right there. Inches from him. That big body all heat and breath and impossible stillness. His beard had brushed Jackson's skin. His voice had curled around his ears like smoke. He had tasted his mouth.
Jackson rolled onto his back, arm thrown over his eyes, trying to shake it off. But his body had a memory of its own. A longing, electric and molten, pressing just under the surface of his skin. He remembered the way Blake looked at him like Jackson was something wild he wanted to break, or maybe something holy he didn't deserve to touch.
He hated him for it.
He wanted him for it.
His breath came slow, hot. One hand slid up over his stomach, palm grazing across the trail of fine blonde hair that vanished beneath the elastic waistband. His skin tingled where it moved.
Every inch of him ached.
His dick pulsed. Hardening with each breath.
Not just from want. From confusion. From guilt. From the way his body had betrayed him the second Blake got too close. From the fact that, despite everything, Jackson had wanted to be caught.
"Fuck you, Blake," he whispered into the darkness.
And even that small act, speaking the name, sent a pulse through his center that made him arch, just barely, against the mattress. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to sting, trying to ground himself. But the memory wouldn't leave. Blake's scent. That damned flannel. The way his chest felt when Jackson shoved against it and it didn't move.
The way Blake's eyes had searched his mouth, then lower. And lower still.
Jackson exhaled, long and unsteady. He let his hand fall to the side, clenched in the sheets while the other slid inside his undies. He let the heat simmer inside him like coals under a heavy lid.
And there, in the hush of his bedroom, sweat cooling on his chest and guilt buzzing behind his eyes, Jackson gave in to a truth he hadn't dared name.
He didn't hate Blake Buckley.
Not even close.
Then, suddenly, a sudden clink.
A soft, familiar metallic rattle.
Followed by the squeak of the window being eased open.
Jackson groaned, hand firing out of his undies, face buried in the pillow. "For God's sake, Cash…"
A dusty boot scraped the sill. Then a voice, gruff, low, and unmistakably smug, slipped in like a breeze through the crack in the wall. "Well damn, you lightin' candles in here or just burnin' with shame?"
Jackson didn't move. Just grunted into the mattress, reaching back to flick his middle finger in the air.
Cash chuckled. "Y'ain't slick, Bell. I saw your face behind the bleachers. Looked like someone fed you moonshine and kissed your dog."
"Leave," Jackson muttered, rolling to face the wall. His voice was muffled, tight. "Seriously."
"Aw, come on. I ain't here to pick a fight."
"You already are one."
Cash grinned as he perched on the window frame like a smug feral cat. His dark hair was wind-blown, and his T-shirt clung to him from the heat. "So…what's the official story? You and cowboy Ken finally playin' house?"
"Cash."
"I mean, I saw the look on your face. Looked like your soul tried to run off without you."
Jackson shoved his face deeper into the pillow. "Get. Out."
"Don't be so uptight," Cash said, hopping down from the sill. "I came to check on your delicate feelin's."
Cash wandered over to the corner of the room without further ceremony and pulled the closet door open. From the bottom, he grabbed a rolled-up thin mattress, creased, faded, and clearly well-used.
"Thought you said you weren't sleepin' over no more," Jackson grumbled without turning around.
"I said maybe." Cash plopped the mattress down on the floor like it was tradition, which, by now, it was. He unfurled the mattress with the ease of someone who knew his place in this room down to the square inch. Then he lay on it, hands behind his head, the ceiling fan brushing wind over their skin. "I'll leave," he said into the stillness, "once you fall asleep."
Jackson didn't answer.
The quiet stretched.
"Your room still smells like sawdust and whatever the hell Daisy burns in them candles," Cash finally utters.
Jackson made a quiet grunt. "It's sandalwood."
"Sandalwood," Cash drawled. "Ain't that just fancy-talk for 'dead tree that don't stink'?" Jackson didn't reply, but his mouth twitched. The faintest ghost of a smile. Cash let the silence stretch a beat before dipping a toe into deeper waters. "So…" he started, soft and slow, like it was just casual talk. "You gonna tell me what that was back there? At the rodeo?"
Jackson didn't move.
Cash rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow to glance at him in the dark. "I ain't judgin'. I just…never seen you look like that before. Like you was bein' pulled apart inside." Jackson's jaw tensed. "I ain't lookin' for a confession," Cash added. "Just wonderin' if it's the cowboy, or what he does to you."
"Cash…" Jackson warned, low and rough. "Don't."
"Alright," Cash said easily, lying back down. "You're the one tossin' and turnin' like your sheets are on fire. Figured maybe talkin' would cool the coals."
Jackson closed his eyes.
Cash waited.
Then, after a long moment, Jackson said, barely audible.
"I think…I think Momma likes him."
Cash stilled. The weight of that sentence landed with more force than the fan overhead or the summer heat. He turned his head toward the ceiling, the edges of his face lit by the moonlight slicing through the blinds. He didn't say a word. Neither did Jackson.
A long silence.
Jackson's fingers slowly curled into the edge of the mattress. He stared at the wall, wide-eyed, his thoughts tangled.
Then, his hand fell over the edge of the bed.
It dangled there, soft, tentative.
He didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
A second later, Cash's hand found it.
Rougher. Warmer. And steady as stone.
They didn't say a word.
They didn't need to.
Because holding hands had always been their secret language. Their safety net. Their anchor. As they lay there, one on the bed, one on the floor, Jackson finally exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
And under the gentle blue glow of the moonlight, Cash's voice whispered.
"Don't worry...I'm here."
(To be continued...)
Casual Wanderer © 2025
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