The Dead Scout's Handbook of Afterlife Survival

Chapter Thirteen: A Memory Lost

The crack of wood on something solid startled Cayden awake. The sunlight pried past his eyelids on a scorching bee-line to his temporal lobe. Enthused voices hammered his eardrums.

A sloping roof hung overhead as his feet burrowed into the soil under the bench. From the bunker, half underground, Cayden peered into the field where a boy pumped his fist, unashamed of the gaps in his grinning teeth. The baseball soared as several other boys dove for it, sending it sailing further in the wrong direction. Children poured from the bunker to celebrate with the boy as he trotted around full circle and stepped on home plate. Two dozen jumping 11- and 12-year-olds surrounded the running boy, open palms slapping his helmet while Cayden stumbled out to meet them. He reached out to high-five Brandon, who apparently just won the game; Brandon breezed by Cayden's outstretched arm.

Cayden's heart to sink a little lower in his chest and he shuffled to the dugout. In the sweat-stained darkness Coach Douglas congratulated them, bare scalp flushed and neck veins bulging, as he clamored inspirational lines in no apparent order. Under a jersey sobbing in frustration at the armpits and neck, the coach's muscular but booze-ruined body trembled with excitement from the monumental victory over the other pre-teens. He acknowledged Cayden by gesturing at the equipment bags and noting this, everyone tossed bats, weights, hats, and helmets in that general direction. One to revere duty over pride, Cayden stacked the dirty caps, gingerly setting the bats in place. After finishing, he reached up to his own head only to remember he hadn't bothered donning his hat today. So, he snatched the three bags and dragged the heaviest up the stairs.

"Pick them up!" Coach Douglas ordered.

Dropping the largest bag, Cayden loaded the first two into the rear of the coach's van. Cayden expected to see Mr. Douglas right behind him, carrying the last satchel to the car. Instead, it sat desolate on the gravel parking lot.

With a squeaking grunt, he hefted the cargo into the trunk and faced his coach, who appeared to be ruffling his own feathers to say something. Mr. Douglas seemed to change his mind, shaking his head, and without saying a word, peeled off in the van. Cayden slapped his forehead and stumbled after the coach; his street shoes were still in the equipment bag. He stopped, considering a long uncomfortable stroll in improper footwear still preferable to an long uncomfortable speech.

Cayden shrugged and returned his focus to the parking lot. A group of his teammates were waiting for someone and this lifted Cayden's spirits.

"Hey! Good game!" Cayden called to the group.

"Yeah, Cayden! So glad you practiced your swing!" They erupted in laughter. A thin, brown-haired boy scurried from the bathroom and hopped into the minivan trailed by a woman who ushered them into the vehicle.

The gravel lot emptied as the few remaining couples shared takeout food with their children. The last of the cars vanished, leaving Cayden's crunching steps as the sole sounds in the hollow sports complex. Only a tall figure in a long, gray coat waited for someone else on the bleachers. Cayden faced away from the high buildings to orient himself to his mother's apartment. After an entire season of this, Cayden wouldn't bother waiting for his mother. She wasn't coming.

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Cayden's cleats clicked on the searing concrete. Suits and dresses around him shifted to polos and sundresses, then tee shirts and cargo pants; buildings shrank and adorned themselves with fences and shutters. Further, apartments rose from the suburban fringes like the charred edges of a campfire, standing tall to compensate for crumbling concrete and boarded windows. Cayden's feet ached and his cleats now scratched along the sidewalk.