Chapter 1; Now - Something Happens In The Water
At 5 AM, my alarm clock unleashes its chorus of boisterous bells and rings, followed by an elegant bow so perfectly rehearsed, you'd think she was winning an award. She finds me already perched on the edge of my mattress; eyes glued to the news as I pick the cuticles of my thumbs. The alarm clock sighs in resignation, wondering why she even bothers anymore. It's been years since I needed her to yank me from my sleep. I sit here, on the thin mattress that has been sitting in this empty living room, listening to the CNN morning anchor go on about Texans protesting for abortion rights in Houston and students demanding better access to mental health resources in Austin. I let out a sigh and decide to fold up the mattress.
I’d call myself a minimalist, but the alarm clock would snark, “Daniel’s just cheap. He’s got one mattress, two bed sheets, three pairs of shoes, four cups and plates, five cans of black beans in the pantry, and six eggs in the fridge.”
Fuck her. What does she know?
I shuffle to my nearly empty closet and grab one of my seven matching navy shirts, shorts, underwear, and socks. Uniformity keeps the chaos at bay, I tell myself. Before heading to the restroom, I peek into my brother’s room. We’ve been living in this one bedroom thanks to a connection that helped us out. The place isn’t much, but Adam was so excited when he first found out we’d be living here. He was so excited to share the only bedroom, but I told him he could have it all to himself. I didn’t know he’d react that way, and I wonder if he caught himself by surprise, but he cried. It’s his first time having his own room. As much as I would have wanted to know what that felt like, I knew that as a kid, it meant more to him. So, we setup a futon I found at a garage sale and got him sheets at the local discount store. The first night, he told me he’d never been happier.
Same here, kid.
Adam is now sound asleep in his empty room, his peaceful expression pulling a rare smile from my lips. Last night was another rough one. He woke up around three in the morning, crying again. His nightmares have been getting worse lately, and the fear lingers long after he wakes. I’d like to say it’s the new meds he’s taking, so many meds, but he’s always been like this. Lately, however, it's as if a storm cloud parked itself over his head.
He clutches his stuffed dog, once plush and now dirty, a cream-colored pup with big brown ears. He's had it since the day I met him, back when he was just three years old. I remember how scared he was when he arrived at the foster home we shared. A skinny Mexican boy with an aversion to meat. I chuckle under my breath, recalling how he’d only eat individually wrapped cheese slices, instant noodles and milk. You could dangle the world's juiciest bacon cheeseburger in front of him, and he'd cry for noodles.
There was a softness to him, a fragility that struck me when he arrived. That’s why I took it upon myself to look after him. I knew the foster parents wouldn’t give a damn about him like he needed. They didn’t give a fuck about the rest of us. They labeled him slow, a baby, but I saw beyond that. The way he sobbed when they gave him a fork instead of a spoon, the way he bit his nails until his fingers bled, the way he gnawed his clothes and wet the bed every night. It’s as if the weight of the world has always been too heavy for his small shoulders, and even though the parents are hopefully long behind us, that weight still crushes him. And me? I’m just trying to hold it together, one threadbare routine at a time, while the world around me spins faster and faster, threatening to fling me off at any moment. That thought catches my breath, and I feel a knot forming in the back of my throat. Quietly, I back away from the door and shut it behind me. I make a mental note to wash Adam’s sheets once he wakes up.
“You don’t know what to do now, do you?” The alarm always finds a way to pester me when I least want to hear her.
She continues, “You’re lost, Daniel. You can’t hide a nine-year-old forever. You’re a twenty-two-year-old white guy, what is this brown kid supposed to be to you? They may not care he’s gone, but someone might come looking for him. You know it. It’s only a matter of…”
I unplug the alarm abruptly. We have to hit the road soon if we want to reach the hill country before dark.
In the shower, amidst fifty meticulously calculated strokes of bar soap, I begin to strategize.
“You’re doubting yourself, Daniel,” echoes the shower head, steam swirling around the small restroom.
I pause, letting the water wash over me my skin. I wish the water would take this feeling with it wherever it goes. “I know. But I just have to do this for Adam. It’s all for him.”
I load my loofah with shower gel, counting to five as I methodically scrub my left arm, then my right. I repeat this ritual, scrubbing every inch of skin, every muscle, every bruise, until I feel clean enough and every part of me has scrubbed five times over.
“You know, Daniel,” the shower head chimes in again, “I never took you for a spiritual man. I, myself…”
I cut him off. “Logic, Mr. Showerhead. Logic is what I believe in most.”
“Creo quia absurdum est,” the shower head retorts loftily. “I believe because it is absurd.”
“Correct. My beat-up shower head speaking Latin is absurd,” I mutter as I turn off the water.
The shower head falls silent, drooling off to sleep. I dry off in front of the restroom mirror, covered haphazardly with a fitted sheet leaving no glass visible. Adam isn’t the only one on edge lately. I’ve been plagued by the same recurring dreams. They always start the same way: wandering through the most magnificent grocery store that seems to stretch endlessly. With every turn, I find the most exquisite produce displayed on pristine shelves—plump papayas begging to be taken home, a sea of flowers swaying gracefully, their fragrances filling the air with roses and tulips. The grapefruits seem to hum with a secret only they know. There are heaps of chocolates from around the world, each speaking a different language. A hint of something toasted tingles on my palate.
Before me lies mountains of freshly baked goods and loaves, the aroma of baguettes and Mexican sweet bread enveloping me. Tears well up in my eyes as I stand before a case displaying the flakiest, most beautiful croissants I’ve ever seen. I then realize, much to my surprise, everything in the store costs a mere penny. One cent. I reach into my pocket, finding a few coins, and that’s when the tears flow. Because for once in our lives, I believe we can survive. The dream ends with me counting coins and planning what to buy first: noodles for Adam.
The box comes next. I jolt awake to find myself lying face-up in a dark place. I’m in a fucking box, fully clothed with shoes on. I kick the walls with frantic desperation, feeling the rough grain of wood against my fingers. Am I in a coffin? Panic rises in my throat, but when I try to scream, my lips won't part. It's as if my face has been stripped of its ability to speak or shout. That’s when I feel something wet seep through my jeans, shirt, and socks, the stench overwhelming—sour, metallic, like some kind of chemical warfare. My lungs seize with each breath as I struggle against the suffocating fumes that creep toward my nostrils.
My mind races with questions. How did I get here? Am I being tortured? The liquid engulfs me, covering where my mouth is supposed to be, entering my nostrils. I close my eyes against the burning smell, feeling the distant thud of something beyond the darkness. It’s faint, but somewhere in the distance, I can make out a soft thud. I try to zero in on the sound. There it is again. I convince myself I can hear it. I can fee its vibrations. I reach out in desperation and touch flesh, recoiling in horror. Is someone else here?
The fright jerks me awake.
After Adam showers—now a routine I've managed to establish three times a week—we pack our bags. Convincing him to embrace minimalism, like I did when we fled our parents' home, was a struggle. Everything I own fits into a duffel bag. I mentally note to buy him new shoes, though he insists on going barefoot whenever possible, as soon as I get paid.
We load into the car and buckle up.
“No, Daniel,” Adam interrupts, “we have to pray before you start the car. Mom and Dad said Jesus can help us.”
I acquiesce, noting that even though he’s smiling, there are tears building up in his eyes. Closing my eyes, he lowers his head.
“Dear Jesus, the breakfast Daniel made was amazing. Thank you for that. Also thank you for getting us this far. Please protect Daniel on the road, we’re going on a roadtrip. I give you permission to take the wheel if you need to. Please Jesus, keep him awake, and me too but for a little bit. Also, if he needs your eyes to see, please let him borrow them. And please watch over Mom and Dad wherever they are. They’re at home, but if you could check on them that would be great. In conclusion, thank you, Jesus and God, both of you, equally and not more that the other. Amen.”
“Amen,” I echo.
“Daniel, did you feel my prayer? Was it good?” Adam asks eagerly.
I glance at him and force a smile. “Yeah buddy, it was one of your best. Gave me goosebumps.”
His face lights up. “Really? Okay, good. Dad will be proud. When can we tell him, Daniel?”
I stroke his hair gently as I drive, playing Melissa Polinar—his favorite artist—on repeat until he drifts off to sleep. It breaks my heart hearing him refer to those people as his parents after everything they did to him, treating him like a burden, less than human. They didn’t deserve to hurt him anymore. That’s why I had to take him.
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