Danny turned reluctantly to see Micah striding to catch up with him, smiling to give off a friendly impression. But something unnerved Danny about his grin and the way he was trying to reach him. His face almost seemed... eager.
Since when did this introverted orphan care about his daddy issues?
"Yeah," Danny waved his hands, then stuffed them deep into his pockets. "I-I can handle it. It's fine." He kept walking, staring at the gravel as he did so, hoping Micah was satisfied with his little white lie. He was not in the mood for friendly advice.
Micah snickered softly. "You know Danny, I used to have problems with my father, too."
Apparently he wasn't going to shoo this fly away that easily.
Danny watched as Micah glanced around quickly, as if he suspected someone was watching them. "Adults are such hypocrites. It's like the moment a person turns nineteen, they... become this thing." He lowered his eyes to focus on the dirt road. Blinking in confusion, Danny turned to him again, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What thing...?"
Micah stopped walking. He let his gaze wander away from Mrs. Burke's fallen house and all people who surrounded it, delving into his past.
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"Well, with my father, if we listened to the radio, we sin. If we talk to girls, we sin." Danny nodded at the second part, which seemed to be the case with his own father.
"And every sin demanded a beating," Micah seemed to be nodding to his own words, lost in thought. "To chase away the devil..." His jaw clenched and his face hardened as a dark, painful memory began to worm its way into his thoughts...
It was a year before the Gatlin murders. Micah's father had walked into the kitchen from his and his wife's bedroom to find Micah sitting at the old wooden table next to the window. The Balding's family radio sat on the tabletop next to his plate of a poorly constructed breakfast. Mrs. Balding wasn't home.
Micah had mindlessly switched on the radio a few minutes before and desperately searched to find something, anything, that could help him forget what he saw last night. He needed to block the vision. Gospel talk just wouldn't cut it today.
"What the hell do you think you're listening to, Micah?" His son didn't seem to be listening or focusing on anything in particular. He had his gaze fixed dreamily outside through the small window, messing with the uneven, feathery black bangs that normally fell into his dark eyes. His other hand clutched a fork. His face was turned to the cornfield. The first rays of sunshine shone through the variety of brown and green corn stalks, lighting up their backyard. A cool autumn breeze blew past the window, ruffling his hair and tickling the scarce leaves on the trees. A wind chime dinged softly.
