“The Volunteer”

By Charlotte M. Casey

Editor’s Note: The Hardin County Independent is proud to announce a new feature to the newspaper, a publication of serial fiction. Each week and throughout a portion of the year, readers will have the opportunity to read a chapter of the book, “The Volunteer,” until finished! The first three chapters are the prologue and will set the stage for the story. Fun fact: The author is local and uses a pen name. Enjoy!

---

 

Chapter 1 – Alexandria, 2014

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 

 White shoes, clean with no scuffs or I’ll get sent home. White scrubs, also clean, pristine or I’ll fail out of school. Hair up – high and tight. Stethoscope. Did I remember my name badge? Oh shoot, did I remember my parking pass-

 “Lex? Lex!”

My eyes popped open and my head jumped off of the desk.

Jenna sat across the desk from me, brain sheet in front of her.

“You fell asleep, dude,” she told me, pen still in her hand, hand still on her keyboard. Filling in her patient details for the shift.

I leaned back and looked around. Telemetry screens were behind Jenna, seven heart rhythms in neat boxes across the screens, two of which were my preceptor’s patients. Call lights going off, different room numbers lit up on a board on the wall behind her. The digital clock on the wall read 1945.

Clinical. I was at clinical. My preceptor, Kathy, had started the shift by showing me around, letting me get some vitals with her and watch her start an IV, but then she had me stay at the desk to look through my patient’s charts so she could quiz me on them.

“How long was I out?” I asked, checking my chin and brain sheet for drool. I had gotten to Central Memorial Hospital at 1845 to prep and I hit the floor at 1900 sharp, but I didn’t remember falling asleep.

“Too long. Thank goodness Kathy wasn’t here. She probably would’ve reported you.”

“Yeah, probably.” And that would have been it. My last chance at completing my clinicals and finishing nursing school gone. I was put on nights after I missed one of my day shifts and almost flunked out of the program. If I missed anything, anything at all, I would have to hang up my stethoscope and apply at Panera again.

I almost welcomed that prospect. Mom would be mad, though.

“Oop, here she comes,” Jenna warned, looking up behind me then hurriedly getting back to her own work.

Kathy, a militant nurse as all in her generation were, came up behind me. A neat, tight, blonde bun on her head. Sharp, gray eyes with wrinkles in the corners from squinting at doctors’ handwriting for years. Crisp, ironed forest green scrubs that marked her as a medical-surgical nurse. Shiny, white tennis shoes that looked freshly cleaned.

“Did you finish your brain sheet yet? We have an admission coming in from ER any minute now.”

That must’ve been where she was, getting report and prepping the room. I was surprised she left me alone. She wanted me to observe everything, which I guess was why I was paying tuition to be there.

“Um, almost,” I said, covering my brain sheet with my arm. The screen of my computer had logged me out, meaning it had been idle for a while. I really did sleep for too long.

She didn’t buy it. “Well, forget about it for now. Our admission is coming up and I’m expecting it to be- “

But she didn’t finish her sentence before a loud scream cut her off.

The elevator doors hadn’t even opened when I heard our patient arriving to the floor.

Kathy immediately looked angry. “Now, this is ridiculous,” she growled, shoving her stethoscope in her pocket. She stormed off, and I was expected to follow.

A tall, stocky man with black hair and in black scrubs wheeled the bed down the hall. He must’ve known room seven was where our patient was headed. Kathy hurried down the hall after him, me trailing behind.

“What in the world did you bring us, Tony?” she asked as the man moved the bed in to place. I could barely hear her over our patient.

“Sorry, Kathy. We gave him some morphine, but didn’t have time to let it kick in. We needed the bed. Dr. Forrester says sorry.”

Right, Tony was an aide from the ER. Dr. Forrester was an ER doctor. Kathy warned me about receiving patients from him, that they were always a mess when they arrived.

“Sure he does. Well, you tell Dr. Forrester I’m reporting him to the House Charge for sending us a distressed patient. Not that he cares.” She glared at Tony, then came up beside the patient’s bed. “Let’s transfer. One, two, three!”

Grabbing a sheet on either side of the bed, they deftly slid the patient over in to his new bed. As fast as he arrived, Tony was gone with his stretcher.

“Mr. Fischer, my name is Kathy. I’m going to be your nurse,” she shouted over his distressed cries.

The older man, bald-headed and severely cachectic (a fancy medical term for emaciated), did not look at her. His eyes, a shocking blue, searched the room for something to take the pain away. It made my chest hurt.

As Kathy began her assessment, checking his IV, she shouted to me, “Call the ER and see if they already called the hospice agency. He’s going to be under General Inpatient status.”

But before I could leave her side, a furious looking woman appeared across the bed from us, one hand on her hip, a cell phone in the other hand.

Published in the September 11, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

 

---

 

Chapter 2 – Alexandria, 2014

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 

This new nurse was short and stout, with curly red hair pulled up in a messy bun. She wore sage green scrubs with white stitching on the breast pocket, and I felt a calm presence near her. She did not seem frantic or rushed.

Kathy’s eyes bugged for a moment, then her face went passive as she continued her assessment of our screaming patient.

“Joanne.”

“Kathy.”

The man continued to keen, grasping at his sheets and looking anywhere but at the three of us in the room. His face was as white as the sheets under him and soaked with sweat.

Geno, one of the older aides, popped his head in the room.

“You good, Kathy?” he asked, his concerned eyes darting between the patient and the two licensed nurses in the room.

Without looking at him, Kathy yelled, “Bring me a basin of warm water and supplies for a bed bath. Also, let Melissa know I will need a cosigner for some morphine in about two minutes.”

“Make that one minute,” Joanne said, almost too quietly to hear. She tapped on the screen of her phone and put it to her ear as she walked from the room.

Kathy gestured me to follow Joanne, and I did as she made her way to the nurse’s station, pulling a pen out of her pocket on the way.

“Hello Dr. Caraker. I’ve got Mr. Charles Fischer, 72-year-old male with a diagnosis of lung cancer with metastases to brain and bone. He’s inpatient here at Central Memorial and- “ She paused, listening as she went to the wall of charts.  She pulled a blank order sheet from one of the drawers and set it on the counter, beginning to fill it out. “Yes, he was the one you heard screaming just a moment ago. Yes, an ER patient. I suspect Dr. Forrester was trying to clean house so he could catch the game.”

The screaming continued down the hall, bouncing off of the walls and tile floor. Geno rushed past with a basin of water in his hands and towels and washcloths over his arms. Jenna and her preceptor, Melissa, followed behind him, getting ready to help. I wondered if I needed to go join them.

“Yes, so anyways, I’m gonna need an order for morphine two milligrams IV push every two hours routine with every 15 minutes as needed, and lorazepam one milligram IV push every four hours routine with one milligram IV push every hour as needed.” She paused again, listening. “Yes, also standing orders for our comfort kit. Haloperidol, atropine, acetaminophen, and bisacodyl, the usual doses and frequencies. Patient has no allergies.”

She wrote the orders down, her hand moving in impossible speed. She was looking at me while she was doing it, probably making sure I was paying attention. It was hard to with the background noise. I had no clue how she was so calm, how any of them were. My heart was racing. This poor man was suffering and, given that a hospice nurse was present, he was actively dying. I didn’t even know that a hospice nurse could come work on a hospital patient.

“Alright. Thank you, Dr. Caraker.” Joanne ended the call. She picked up the order sheet and walked quickly back down the hall to room 7, my own shoes squeaking across the tile floor behind her.

As if on cue, Kathy met her at the door. She handed Kathy the order form and entered the room.

“You stay with her, Alexandria.” Kathy gestured to Melissa and Jenna, who joined her across the hallway in the med room. They would enter the orders at the computer in there to save time.

I reentered room 7, feeling sick to my stomach as I watched Joanne join Geno at the bedside.

“Mr. Fischer, my name is Joanne. I’m another nurse here to assist with your care.” She spoke to him at his ear, not raising her voice as much as the others.

She reached above his bed to dim the lights. Geno worked quickly, getting the linens straightened out. They would bathe the patient once he was medicated.

I heard a distant ding of the elevator behind a scuffle of shoes as Kathy came back to the room. She held two syringes in her hand. I guessed the morphine and lorazepam. Pain and anxiety medications, I had learned in pharmacology class.

Joanne moved to the other side of the bed as Kathy came up to the patient’s IV, cleaned it, and administered the medications.

It took several minutes, but it sounded like someone was turning down the volume on poor Mr. Fischer. His movements became less frantic, his eyes more distant.

Joanne held his hand. Kathy was at the computer, charting the medication administrations. I was at the other side of the bed, observing.

“No.”

Everyone stopped what they were doing to look at the doorway. My heart skipped a beat.

Published in the September 18, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

 

---

 

Chapter 3 – Alexandria, 2014

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 

The man standing in the doorway was dressed for a party that had probably ended hours ago. His black suit jacket was wrinkled and mussed. His black tie had been undone. His sweaty, straight, black hair looked like he had shaken it out like a dog. His ice blue eyes were bloodshot. He held on to the door frame as though it was stopping him from falling over.

“No,” he murmured again. I’ll never forget the chill that fell over the room.

Kathy still had her hands on the keyboard, but had stopped typing. Geno, who had gloved up and was wetting down a washcloth for a bed bath on our now calm patient, stopped mid-wring, the water dripping in to the basin. Joanne, who had been holding Mr. Fischer’s hand, held fast in her place.

I realized at that second that I was positioned closest to the door.

The stranger pushed off from the door frame and staggered in to the room. As he got closer to the end of the bed, I backed up slowly next to Kathy, not taking my eyes off of him. He smelled like he had fallen in to a whiskey barrel. When he reached the footboard, he grabbed it. His breathing was rasping as though he had been running.

“Ray,” he said almost disdainfully.

Mr. Fischer hitched a breath and then, like “Ray” had been a killing blow, stopped breathing altogether. His piercing blue eyes stared at nothing through slits. His hand went limp in Joanne’s.

At the end of his bed, the hands gripping the footboard went white-knuckled.

Another, deeper scream like a roar filled the air.

“NO!”

This very alive and very angry man, with the same piercing blue eyes as the dead one in the bed, turned immediately towards me and Kathy.

For some reason, my own eyes darted to the clock on the wall above the door. 1953. I had been in my first night clinical for almost an hour when I received my first death threat.

“You killed him! I saw you! You’re dead!”

And then he dove at me and Kathy.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Joanne hit the blue button on the wall. Geno, gloves and all, pushed the tray table with the water basin away and leapt over the patient to try and intercept our attacker. Kathy threw me out of the way and took the first blow right across her cheek. She went down, and he tackled her, throwing more punches. Geno scrambled to the floor on to him.

I remember feeling the cold wall touch my back as I continued to back away from the scene. I remember seeing Geno’s limbs wrap around the upper body of the raging man as he kneeled over Kathy. I remember seeing, even in the room’s dim light, red blood spreading quickly across the floor in a puddle.

“Call security!” Joanne shouted as she ran to the door. She grabbed my hand and yanked me out in to the hallway. I went with her like a rag doll.

Rushing to room 7 with a crash cart was the code team, who had received the blue button call. Having realized what was really happening, the men in the team rushed in to the room. They were finally able to pull the man off of Kathy and hold him on the floor.

“Let me go! I’m going to kill her!” He locked gazes with me briefly as I stood near the doorway in the hall. My whole body went numb.

The man never stopped flailing and was strong for his size. He reached for Geno’s arm with his mouth and grabbed Geno’s bicep in his teeth, prompting a loud curse word from Geno.

Two security guards, armed with tasers, passed me and Joanne. There was more cursing and yelling from both Geno and the attacker. The guards warned the man before they tased him, but it only seemed to anger him and he roared louder.

Joanne led me back to the nurse’s station where Melissa and Jenna stared wide-eyed at us. Joanne sat me down in a swivel chair and kneeled in front of me, keeping her hands on my shoulders.

“Take a deep breath for me, Alexandria. Deep breath, kiddo,” she told me, rubbing my shoulders.

Like waking from a deep sleep, I came to the realization that I had started to cry. Hard. I tried to get a breath, but it got caught in my throat several times.

“Slow, deep breaths. Slow and deep.” This kind woman held my gaze until I collapsed against her shoulder. She held me in her arms while I sobbed, like she was my mother.

And it was then, at 2003, a little over an hour into my first night clinical, that I decided to call the director of my nursing school the next morning and drop out of the program.

Published in the September 25, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

 

---

Chapter 4 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

I hate endings.

People always say, “Everything is okay in the end. If everything isn’t okay, then it isn’t the end.” That has never been the case for me. Every ending in my life thus far has been anything but okay.

My mother died when I was seven years old, in the spring of ‘93. That meant my dad, Charles the second (I’m Charles the third, in case that wasn’t clear), got to embrace single fatherhood. He wasn’t a bad guy – in fact, many would call him a saint – but he wasn’t in the running for Father of the Year either. Or, at least, I didn’t think he was at the time. You see, when were a kid in the nineties with the single dad that worked a lot, you got canned tuna in your Power Rangers lunch box instead of Lunchables. Your clothes were hand-me-downs from the neighbors that pitied you because your mom wasn’t there to take you to Sears every school year. You had no one to rush home to when the streetlights came on, because he was working late and wasn’t there to tan your hide if you were delayed.

In 1997, my grandfather, Charles Fischer the first, showed up on our front step one day. I remember because I was watching a commercial for Grand Theft Auto for PlayStation, thinking of ways to convince my buddy, Chris, to get it so I could come play. I remember my dad answering the door and seeing him standing there, his limo and driver waiting at the curb for him. I remember laying on my stomach on the old shag carpet in the living room, my attention diverted away from my evening cartoon line-up, watching my dad grip the door with his strong hand, as he began yelling at his own father. Then he walked out and shut the front door to continue the argument outside, and I remember not hearing anything more as I fled to my room. He came in later to tell me that I would be spending more time with Grandpa Fischer (Grandfather detested being called that).

Finally, something positive in my preteen eyes. Grandfather insisted I get everything my heart desired. And I mean everything. Instead of begging Chris to let me come play his PlayStation, he was asking to come play on my (yes, my very own) rear-projection, giant flat screen TV. Grandfather’s chef would make us homemade pizza with any toppings I could dream up. Heck, I tried pepperoni, marshmallows, and pickles once, just because I could (that was a bad idea, by the way). I got to shop at The Gap and Abercrombie for my clothes. I went from being some nobody with used Champion sweatpants and worn-down discount store shoes, to being one of the most popular kids in my class. This continued when Grandfather bankrolled my transfer to a private school, where everyone had their own giant televisions (many had two, one for video games, one for MTV to play in the background) and private chefs to make pizzas.

It sounds like a caricature of kids of the rich and famous, but for me, it was real.

And it made dad absolutely furious. As the years went on, I spent less and less time in my dingy little bedroom at his place. When I did come home, we mostly just argued. He tried to tell me that there was much more to life than getting everything I wanted. Over time, I heard less and less of what he had to say. Grandfather said dad just preferred to live like a dog. After a while, I believed him.

At age 17, the night I graduated high school (a year early, thanks to all of the tutors Grandfather had hired for me), dad and I had a shouting match that could probably be heard blocks away. Before I could pull the Nokia out of my pocket to call Grandfather, my limo (yes, my very own) pulled up to the curb behind me. I hopped in and never saw the inside of dad’s house again.

I spent the summer with him before entering my Ivy League years. Between keeping my grades and double-fisting red solo cups, my past life seemed to slip away.

On October 13^th, 2007, I got a call from Grandfather’s estate administrator, Sam, saying that Grandfather had a heart attack and had died suddenly. I was the first and only named in his will.

You would think, oh, finally a good end for Charlie. He inherits billions and lives happily ever after.

But I loved my grandfather, even more than the material goods that he filled my life with. So, after that day, I began to drown my sorrows in my sins. I was always drunk or high on something. I always smelled of someone’s perfume from the night before, never the same scent on different days. I had adapted, though, and passed as sober to anyone who mattered. I got through my MBA and faked my way through exams, presentations, and even an unpaid internship. I remember graduation day pretty clearly, but that was about it.

The years after that were a blur, too. I never took a job at a company or started my own. I could have called in positions at different businesses Grandfather worked with as a venture capitalist, but I didn’t. I fed from the teat of my massive inheritance, which was managed by Sam. My focus was on staying as numb as possible, no matter what it cost me, financially or physically, and I had seemingly endless means to do so.

The loss of my grandfather led to my spiral downward. But the loss after that, arguably my biggest loss… Completely ruined my life.

Published in the October 2, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 5 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

This part of my story is blurred. I got some of the details from my friend Sam, who knows a lot of people. The rest I got in bits and pieces from various witnesses.

It was New Years Eve 2014. My friends threw a bash to end all bashes for me because, at the stroke of midnight, it would be 2015, and I would be turning 29. Of course, the party boy’s birthday is the biggest party night of the year.

I remember getting to my buddy’s penthouse around 3 p.m., earlier than usual for these kinds of events. He really went all out. I remember telling him he should’ve waited, that I would be the big 3-0 in a year. He told me this was just the wind-up for that. Then he handed me my first drink. It wasn’t even 5 p.m. and we were getting started.

Apparently, he had an open bar and two bartenders with strict orders to make sure I wouldn’t remember a thing from the evening. They definitely earned their pay.

So did the drug dealers that my buddy worked with. He got his hands on everything they taught you to avoid in high school health class. There was even stuff there I’d never tried before (which was crazy, if you knew me at the time), so I was curious and heavily encouraged to partake.

It was around six in the evening when Sam started blowing up my phone. The night was very young but I was already far gone. I ignored him at first. At that time, our relationship was more professional. I figured he was calling to question some of my purchases, like usual. I told this to the two girls I had my arms around, sitting on the roof of the penthouse, smoking who-knows-what. But he didn’t stop calling, which evidently annoyed me enough to finally answer.

“Sam, my money man! Talk to me!” I apparently shouted in to my phone.

“Charlie, can you go somewhere quiet to talk?” Sam told me later he asked me on the phone.

“My man, do you know where I’m at? Ain’t no quiet corners in this joint, or I’d be taking up some space there, if you know what I mean.”

At this point, I allegedly winked at the girls. I cringe now, realizing that this was probably true because that’s just the kind of guy I was.

“Charlie, I won’t mince words. Your father is dying.”

I didn’t speak for a few seconds.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“Your father has been rushed to Central Memorial Hospital. I guess he is having some sort of pain crisis from his cancer and is beside himself. I guess his neighbors heard him screaming and called the police.”

Another few seconds passed. I was probably trying to remember when was the last time I spoke to my father. Now, I know it was back in 2010. It was when I was studying for finals and trying to reduce the amount of substances I was drinking, snorting, and injecting so that I could pass the exam and get Sam off of my back.

I remember now that dad was trying to tell me something important, but I was in withdrawal and stressed out and ended up hanging up on him. I wish I could remember the conversation, or even the way his voice sounded.

I guess the fact that he had had cancer didn’t occur to me until Sam rang me at my 29th birthday party to tell me time was running out.

A normal person would feel shame. Guilt. Sadness. Grief.

I was mad.

I was mad at this man, who went to work while my mother laid dying in her bed, wasting away from breast cancer. I was mad at this man, who did what I felt was the bare minimum as a father, keeping me fed and clothed, and not even doing that well. I was mad at this man, who pawned me off on his own father because he couldn’t handle being the one thing I needed in the world: a dad.

How dare he come back into my life to ruin this most perfect night?

Apparently, I hung up on Sam. I went zero to sixty on the rage scale and stormed out of my own party. The girls I was with and other guests witnessed my exit. My buddy who threw my party was mortally offended.

Don’t ask me how I made the hour drive to Central Memorial Hospital in the condition I was in. To this day, I’m surprised they didn’t add any surprise vehicular manslaughter charges to my docket, to give me more time in prison.

I made it to the hospital in one piece, though.

I don’t remember getting past the security desk. I don’t remember making it to room seven on the third floor. I don’t even remember witnessing my father’s last breath.

But I vaguely remember the sober cold that came over me as my body made contact with the nurse I tackled. I somewhat recall the pain in my fists from all of the punching (the police report said I mostly missed her head and made contact with the floor, mixing her blood from my first punch with my own from my knuckles). I kind of recollect the sensation of being held down and tased.

And then, without my knowledge (because by the time the police showed up, I had passed out from intoxication and fury), I was placed under arrest just a few hours short of my 29th birthday.

I lost my father that night, and might as well have lost my life.

Published in the October 16, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 6 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

I woke up the next morning smelling like puke and wearing paper scrubs from the hospital.

It turns out that, after I had passed out, they brought me down to the first floor of Central Memorial and got me medically cleared in the ER, as well as drug and alcohol tested. The staff there were thrilled to have me, the jerk that assaulted two of their own (who were also apparently getting treated on the other side of the department, as far away from me as possible). When I was deemed safe to leave the hospital, I was placed in a squad car and hauled to the county jail and placed gingerly in my own cell for observation. Apparently, I had been sick several times that night, to the joy of the officers that had to clean me up. I remember none of this.

“Fischer. You’ve got a phone call,” the guard shouted at me through a megaphone. Or, at least, that’s how loud it sounded and felt, my head pounding rhythmically with each word.

I was escorted, shaky and in cuffs, to a phone and handed the receiver.

“Charlie, this is Sam.”

It sounded like Sam also had a megaphone.

“Hello,” I rasped. My throat was raw.

“I’ve contacted your lawyer, Gene Murphy. Things aren’t looking too good for your end.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. It’s hard to know how to feel when you’ve just woken up in jail with almost no memory of why.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Well… From the way it sounds, you hung up with me on the phone last night and went to the hospital. When you got there, you punched a nurse, bit an orderly, then passed out.”

The first ripple of emotion went through my stomach as he spoke. It felt like nausea.

“Did I?”

“Allegedly.”

“Why did I do that?”

Sam didn’t know how to answer. It was hitting him then that I really didn’t remember the night before.

“Your father died, Charlie.”

My stomach went still, like the water before a huge storm hits.

“Charlie… We have a lot to talk about, and I don’t think the jailhouse phone is the best place for it. You won’t have court today because it’s a holiday.”

It was New Year’s Day. Happy birthday to me.

“But they will get to you tomorrow so we can see what your bail is, if you’re lucky enough to get it.”

“What do I do until then?” I had never been in jail.

“Whatever they tell you. But whatever you do, do not admit to anything, or speak about the events, whether or not you remember. Wait until Gene contacts you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“We’ll be in touch.” He hung up the phone.

I was stuck in jail until January 2^nd. Then I was denied bail. Because of my crap attitude and endless supply of money, I was deemed a flight risk. Even Gene couldn’t talk me out of that.

What Gene did do for me, though, was get me a plea deal. He was able to get me reduced to two counts of aggravated assault (one for each staff member), so I avoided an attempted murder charge, which had been possible because I guess I threatened to kill the nurse. I got a DUI and DWI, which was expected, and lost my license until further notice (I still don’t have it, but I don’t need it at this point). I avoided a drug possession charge; though I tested positive for several things, I surprisingly didn’t have anything on me when I was arrested.

Thanks to the deal, on May 1^st, 2015, I avoided a lengthy trial and was sentenced to ten years in prison with the possibility of parole. It was a landmark case for the area. There were staff members from Central Memorial and other medical facilities that came and protested outside of the courthouse for a longer sentence for me. They were furious when I was given such little time. They were right to be.

Not only did I get a light sentence, but I also got sent to a prison that people would lovingly call “Club Fed.” Usually violent offenders such as myself wouldn’t be that lucky. If anything, it gave me a big head, made me feel like I could get away with anything.

In addition to getting a light sentence at a minimum-security prison resort and spa, I eventually got my parole. Gene was worth his weight in fees.

Don’t worry, though. The spoiled felon didn’t get out of everything so easily. I had had my name dragged through the mud in the media. And because of my behavior at the party, I was basically a pariah in all of my past social circles. I wouldn’t be able to return to my life before prison without a lot of damage control.

The icing on the cake was the meeting I had with Gene, while I was awaiting release.

“Community service?”

“Yeah, you heard me,” Gene said, staring at me across a metal table through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, and apparently so does the judge. He laughed when he offered this deal. Parole for community service. Thought it would teach you something.”

I glared at the table, one hand in my long, straight hair, the other holding a cigarette.

If it wasn’t obvious already, I had learned nothing from my prison sentence. I still believed that my actions the night of my father’s death were not my fault. I was already trying to think of ways to get out of this.

Nothing I came up with worked.

Published in the October 23, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 7 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

On January 7^th, 2020, I was released from prison.

My final conversation with Judge Carmen, who presided over my case, was more like an argument.

“Why meal delivery?”

“Because I figured it would do you good to work with people who didn’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter.”

I crossed my arms. Such a brat. “I can’t drive.”

“You will be paired with a driver.”

“I thought, as a violent offender, I’m not allowed to interact with a lot of people.”

Judge Carmen cocked an eyebrow at me. “It was you and your lawyer that convinced the court that your violent actions were solely because you were under the influence, and that you are not a threat while sober. Now is your time to prove that. Or maybe I’ll reconsider your parole?”

I glared at him. “You can’t do that.”

“Do you want to bet on that?”

Something in this old man’s stony eyes told me I did not, in fact, want to test that. So, I took the deal. My freedom, traded for five days per week of delivering meals to the needy.

On my first day, I was picked up from my mansion and brought to the facility by Kevin, one of the volunteers (there by choice, not by court order). While we loaded crates of meals into the back of the vehicle, he told me about the organization.

“The Lunch Bunch delivers meals to families who need help getting food. Some people receive daily meal deliveries, if they are unable to cook for themselves. Sometimes, it is for families who have been referred by social services who cannot afford groceries, so we help stock their pantries.”

I grabbed two boxes and slung them into the truck. I coughed in the cold January air.

“Try not to get that all over the meals, dude.”

“Sorry. These are heavier than you’d think.”

“Oh, those are full family boxes. Some families get food for the week, with fruits, vegetables, some snacks, and frozen meals.”

“How long is all of this going to take to deliver?”

“As long as it takes.”

Great, I thought to myself. Like I had had any other plans anyway.

The truck on the first day took four hours to deliver. Most of that was because Kevin talked to the regulars. Lots of older people who probably hadn’t seen a warm body since the last food delivery. Some poor people in the worst real estate I’d ever seen, places that reminded me of the neighborhood where I grew up. Some of the people we served could’ve been the friends I had had before Grandfather whisked me away to greener lawns.

By the end, I was sore from hauling crates, and sick of talking. Kevin dropped me in the circle drive of my home.

“See you tomorrow, Chuck.”

Before I could turn around and retort, he had driven off.

I did the five days per week until I got deathly ill in the beginning of February. There were rumors circulating that there was some kind of illness from overseas infecting Americans. I ended up going to the emergency room at St. Rose Hospital because I couldn’t get my breath, and I was sent home with a nebulizer and orders to shelter in place until I was better. By the time I was well enough to return to food deliveries, the world was changing. My supervisor warned that we were staring in the face of a pandemic and to prepare. He was right, too. COVID was declared a public health emergency on March 13^th, 2020. We couldn’t halt food deliveries, but how we handled food and delivered meals changed.

The first couple months, we wore what felt like space suits. We would drop the food on doorsteps and leave because we could be in proximity of any of our clients. Eventually we downgraded to gloves, masks, and face shields. We still dropped the food and ran like we had just left explosives, but at least we weren’t sweating our tails off while doing so.

Meanwhile, I kept coughing. And coughing. And coughing. I was losing weight, too. When I was finally able to get in to see a doctor, he told me I probably had long COVID, gave me an inhaler, and told me to follow up in a month. I didn’t bother.

So, I kept doing my court-ordered duties, wore my mask, and kept my head down. I would work my hours, sometimes up to eight hours a day, and come home and pass out in exhaustion. It was getting so routine that I didn’t complain anymore.

But I’m not going to pretend that I cared too much about the people I served at the time. It was just something I did because I had to.

Would I ever change from that arrogant, spoiled little boy?

Yes. And all it took was meeting a ghost.

 

Published in the October 30, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 8 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

It was the beginning of August of 2020. I had been doing meal deliveries since January. Kevin and I were the volunteers that contributed the most hours. Kevin, again, because he wanted to. Me, because I was trying to get through my required community service hours as fast as I could. Our surplus of availability earned us more work. Good deeds don’t go unpunished, I had thought to myself when I had been informed of the changes.

“You ever been to this part of town, Chuck?”

Despite all of the times I had corrected Kevin, he had continued to call me Chuck. He never told me why, either. He would only change the subject when I inquired.

“I have, actually.” Looking out the windshield, I had vague memories. My old friend, Chris, had lived in this neighborhood. My father’s house was about five minutes away by car. I couldn’t say how I felt being there.

“Gustav, our new supervisor, said this’ll be part of our new Thursday route until further notice.”

Gustav, our new supervisor, can go skip rocks, I told myself. Actually, I thought something worse than that. It’s better that I don’t repeat it.

Thursday was already one of our longer days, so I wasn’t sure why he made the change. I guess it didn’t matter. It’s not like I had a job to clock in at, or a family waiting for me at home. My small household staff, the housekeepers and cooks and all that, only wanted their paychecks, which I did not have to be present to provide. Sam had everything so automated that my community service was all I had to think about.

Kevin pulled up to our first of many houses on our route. We were still in the business of masking, gloving, and donning a face shield, so I was already putting on my equipment before we got there. I got out and went to the back of the truck, grabbing the first box out of the back. It was heavy; usually, this meant the family had multiple members or children.

The box went to a two-story, white house with a brown roof. There were unkempt shrubs under the front windows on either side of the front steps, which led straight up to the door. As I approached the stairs, hauling the heavy container, the bush to the right of the stairs moved ever so slightly.

I stopped for a moment. In the very pits of my childhood memory, I remembered Chris’s neighborhood had had skunks. I had learned this fact the hard way. I had also learned how fast I could pedal my bike that day.

It was broad daylight on delivery day, so that decreased the chances of it being a skunk. But if it had rabies…

“Hey, come on Chuck, we gotta move it!” Kevin honked the horn.

The bush stopped moving. I turned to glare at him before I walked the final few yards to the step. I set the box down on the step, reached up to ring the bell, and headed back to the truck.

Before I could get twenty feet away, I felt something cold and wet hit the back of my Lunch Bunch polo shirt.

I spun and jumped all in one motion, yelping like a struck dog, which threw me into a coughing fit. The shrub rattled again and I heard laughing, both from it and from Kevin in the van. A bright-colored gun nozzle poked out of the leaves. I squinted against the sunlight and saw a small set of eyes peeking at me.

“Come on, Chuck! You don’t want to get sprayed again!” It was as though Kevin had never seen anything funnier.

Before I could say anything, confront my attacker, or even catch my breath, my face shield caught a splattering of water too.

I had been wrong. Kevin laughed even harder.

“Peter!”

The bush jumped and the nozzle got sucked back in to the foliage. The voice had come from one of the windows over the bush. A second later, the front door opened.

“Peter, what did I tell you about using that gun on people?” whoever stepped out of the house, a woman, yelled at the shrub.

It remained as still as the dead. Meanwhile, I was trying to wipe the water from my shield.

“Sir, I am so sorry about my grandson,” the woman said.

I was finally able to quit the coughing and get my face shield clear enough to see. An older, stern-looking woman with a gray braid down her shoulder stood in the threshold of the front door. Her hands were on her hips, one of which was holding a wooden spoon. The bush did not move, I think out of fear.

“It’s no trouble, ma’am.”

Truth be told, I was angry. It was a hot day so the water would dry quickly, but my pride was injured. At least Kevin had stopped laughing when the old woman came out.

“Rest assured, this will be the only time this happens to you.” The woman turned to the bush. “Right, Peter?”

Silence from the shrub.

That was my first experience with Peter Rumen. It definitely was not the only time I got sprayed.

Published in the November 6, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 9 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

September 2020. The leaves had started their turn, from the lively green that swished in the summer breeze, to the crackling reds, oranges, and golds that rubbed together in the wind like bits of paper. The air had a chill that would break you out in goosebumps when it hit your neck.

The Lunch Bunch had embroidered fall jackets. They were serious about us being easily identifiable. Probably because a lot of the neighborhoods we visited weren’t the friendliest, and it needed to be known we were there to help.

You would think that would stop little Peter Rumen from spraying me with his water gun. You know, be nice to the guy making sure you don’t starve every week, right? Nope.

“Why can’t I say something to him about it?” I had asked Kevin after the fourth week of getting the Soaker Blaster treatment.

“Because,” he had said, not looking away from the road as he drove, “we are there to help, not argue. Don’t pick a fight with a kid.”

“Well, would Gustav say anything to his family if I brought it up to him?”

Kevin had scoffed. “Chuck. It’s water, not eggs or body fluids or something. I feel like you can deal with it.”

“You’re not the one getting sprayed.”

But I had given up. I had been getting nowhere with him, and I didn’t want to be whiny. So, when we had stopped at the gas station for coffee, I had grabbed a 99-cent poncho from beside the checkout. Worth every penny.

We pulled up to the white, two-story house. I donned my poncho and required PPE and got out. I grabbed the box out of the back of the truck and started up the walkway, but stopped.

A boy, probably around twelve years old, was sitting on the steps. He had his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. He was glaring at the ground, his gold, bowl-cut hair blowing in the breeze.

There he was. Though I had never seen him before because he was always hiding in the bushes, I knew this was Peter. He had that petulant little kid face that you just knew got joy out of soaking strangers with his squirt gun.

He was also in the spot where I had to put the meal box.

I approached the steps.

“Hey kid. I gotta leave the box where you’re sitting. Do you mind?” I asked.

He looked up at me. He had dark brown eyes.

“Can’t you just leave it there?” he asked, looking at the spot I was standing on the cement walkway.

“No, kid.”

“Why not?”

“Because the bugs and crap will get to it.”

He looked back down at the ground.

“Oh.”

“Do you mind moving? I’ve gotta get going.”

He didn’t move.

“Where’s your water gun?”

“It’s inside.”

“Why?”

“It’s not fun anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because you wear that stupid garbage bag.”

I looked down at the bright red poncho I was wearing and immediately felt like a jerk. That was a new feeling for me.

“Peter!” a voice called from in the house. “Have you started your schoolwork?”

It then occurred to me. It was Thursday morning.

“Why aren’t you in school?” I asked him.

“I do school on the computer.”

“Why?”

“COVID.”

I’d forgotten that they closed the schools in the area until further notice. I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but a horn honked behind me.

At the same time, the door behind Peter opened. It was the old woman.

“Peter, what did I say? Go work on your schoolwork!” she said sternly, reaching down to grab his shirt collar. She pulled him up and he stormed inside. Not even looking at me, she shut the door.

I left the box where Peter had been sitting and walked back to the truck.

“What was the holdup, Chuck?”

“Kid wouldn’t move.”

“You could’ve placed it at the base of the steps.”

“You know we’re trained to not do that.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got a schedule, and I don’t want to hear about you arguing with that kid,” Kevin said. He threw the truck in to gear and steered us to the next house.

The following Thursday, it was the same deal. Peter was seated on the step right where his food for the week was supposed to go.

Following Kevin’s incorrect advice, I didn’t try to move the kid this time. I set the box at the base of the steps and started to walk off.

“Wait,” Peter called.

I stopped mid-step and turned around, my poncho blowing in the autumn cold.

“I thought you’re supposed to put the box here,” he said, pointing to his spot.

“I am.”

“So…”

“So what, kid? I gotta go.”

“I’m gonna tell.”

I tilted my head, feeling a swell of frustration rise in my chest like indigestion.

“Tell who? Your granny?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t you have computer school, kid?” I was really trying not to rise to his challenge and get written up.

He just started with those brown, sulky eyes. What did he want from me?

“I’m still gonna tell.”

“Well, just remember, if I get in trouble, I may not get to bring you food anymore.”

Peter’s eyes widened. It was a low blow, threatening the kid with starvation, but he was really getting under my poncho.

I turned around and kept walking to the van.

“Alright, I won’t tell! See you next week, Ray!”

My heart lurched to a halt. I spun around.

“What-”

Before I could ask, Peter was already rushing inside and slamming the door, leaving the box of food outside.

Published in the November 13, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 10 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

That moment with Peter bothered me to no end.

Ray. He had called me Ray.

My father, Charles Raymond Fischer the Second, was called Ray by all of his friends, colleagues, and associates. Anytime we would enter a local diner, gas station, or grocery store, everyone would greet him like he was their best friend in the world. Even though he didn’t grow up there, the locals treated him like a townie.

When Grandfather was alive, he had still called dad Charles. Because I had lived with Grandfather and only associated with his circle, I hadn’t heard the name Ray in years.

So where in the world did little Peter Rumen pull Ray out of? My Lunch Bunch jacket had a Charlie name patch on it, but I’d worn the poncho for a long time so it would be covered. And I was a complete stranger to this kid. He didn’t know my life, my history, or my family tree.

“Do I look like a Ray to you?” I had asked Kevin at the end of the shift while we were unloading empty crates at the warehouse.

“Huh?”

“Do I look like a Ray to you? Like, if you didn’t know my name, would you say I look like a Ray?”

“Nah, definitely a Chuck.” He laughed and kept unloading.

“Seriously, Kevin?”

“What’s the deal with Ray?”

I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go in to my family history with Kevin.

“Just… something the kid said.”

“You’re really worried about what Peter said to you? The kid that scared you into wearing that ridiculous poncho?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Look, Chuck. Kids say stuff. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

In an unexpected gesture, Kevin patted my arm. The sudden physical contact threw me off, and for a moment, I could swear I saw something in his gray-green eyes. Almost like a knowing.

The next Thursday, we pulled up to our first stop. This time, the old woman was in the front yard, raking leaves. Peter was helping across the yard, but he didn’t look too thrilled about it.

I donned my PPE and, feeling a little self-conscious after Kevin’s comment, left my poncho shoved under my seat in the truck. Could’ve used it to break the cold wind, but I didn’t want the judgment. I went around the back of the truck to g grab their food.

“Good morning, Charlie,” the old woman said.

“Good morning.” I realized I didn’t know her name. I only knew Peter’s because she had yelled at him that first day.

As I approached the steps, I peeked at the side of the box, where we labeled it for the main recipient.

Rumen, Jenny.

Huh. My mom’s name was Jenny. This old woman must be Jenny, too. She looked more like a Jennifer to me. The deep, grumpy lines on her face didn’t exactly say “Jenny.”

“Hey, look at me!”

As I was leaving, Peter threw the rake down and took a running start before launching himself into the pile of leaves he was working on.

The deluge of reds and browns and golds that followed scattered in the breeze, spreading through the yard where they had previously been.

“Peter!” Jenny griped. She threw her rake down and stormed towards the boy in the leaf pile, fists at her sides.

“Wait,” I said quickly.

Jenny stopped her approach, the anger in her face overwhelming. Peter’s face looked fearful as he peaked out of the foliage.

I can’t explain why I suddenly felt protective over Peter, especially after his behavior towards me.

“He was only being a kid,” I said simply, almost sheepishly.

Jenny looked floored, like I felt myself. As though she didn’t know what to say to this stranger criticizing her actions, she stomped back to her pile, picked up her rake, and went back to work.

Peter looked surprised, too. He pushed himself back up to his feet and swept the leaves off of his clothes. I realized his coat looked a little thin as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Thanks,” he said, low enough that she wouldn’t be able to hear across the yard.

“At least you didn’t get her with the water gun.”

He grinned at me. He had buck teeth, and a dimple in his chin when he smiled.

At that moment, the question I had had all week came out.

“Peter. Why did you call me Ray last Thursday?”

He shrugged. “I thought that was your name.”

“Oh.”

“You look like someone I knew a long time ago, back when I was little.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Tall, with long, black hair and blue eyes. Your jacket is different, too. He wore a jean jacket with patches.”

I didn’t see Peter as I stared at him.

Dad had lived in the next neighborhood over. My buddy Chris had lived over here, and our dads had been friends. In a distant memory, I remembered the worn, light denim jacket that had smelled like motor oil and cigarette smoke, covered in army surplus patches.

But… no. Couldn’t be.

“How old were you?”

“Like five.” He shrugged again.

“And now, you’re…”

“Twelve.”

I was right about his age. And that would mean he had known dad back in 2013. A year before he had died…

“You sure your Grandma Jenny didn’t tell you about someone like me?”

Peter laughed. “My grandma’s name is Greta. My mom is Jenny.” He pointed up at the windows on the upper level of the house. “There she is, watching in the window.”

I looked up, squinting. In the center window of the upstairs, I could see the shadow of someone sitting, looking down at us.

Published in the November 20, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 11 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

One of the biggest days of the year, Thanksgiving, had finally arrived. All of the meals provided by The Lunch Bunch included a hot box with a fully prepared turkey, sides, and pumpkin pie, and a cold box for things like cranberry sauce and whipped cream for the pie. I didn’t know who was funding this organization, but they went all out for holidays. I had witnessed that earlier in the year at Easter, too. Not even the pandemic had stopped them.

Because of the extra boxes for the food, The Lunch Bunch had rented bigger trucks to haul everything. Kevin and I also had another person with us that day. Phil, like Kevin, did this for the love of it, not obligation. He and Kevin talked like old buddies, too.

I got a ride in early to help pack everything up.

“Hey Chuck, with the number of hours you’ve been pulling lately, you’ll be hitting your quota in no time,” Kevin remarked, placing a stack of three huge containers in the truck.

“That’s the goal, Kevin.”

“What are we gonna do without you?” he chuckled, elbowing Phil.

I was thrilled at the idea of almost being done with this. But then… there was also a small part of me that wondered what I would do to fill my days. I didn’t have friends anymore. I had started running while in prison, to keep the demons and cravings quiet, but after getting COVID, the shortness of breath and coughing decreased the appeal. And I didn’t spend all of my time ingesting substances and getting women, so I would need to find a new hobby.

It was go-time. Kevin, Phil, and I loaded into the truck and got on our route. Because of the amount of food and the fact that it was temperature-controlled, we were on a time-crunch that required us to change our route for the day. We wove our way through roads full of cars. Family members and friends were occasionally seen leaving these cars with pots and platters of food.

At Grandfather’s house, we had people come to us. They weren’t family, but were Grandfather’s rich friends. BMWs and Rolls Royces filled his circle drive. These tight streets and tiny houses, however, seemed cozier.

In the early afternoon after over a dozen stops, we reached the Rumen house. There were no cars outside of it. The small flat-screen in the living room could be seen through the window.

Both Phil and I got out, got on our protective equipment, and each grabbed a box from the back. We placed them side by side on the step. I reached up to ring the doorbell, but the door slowly opened.

On the other side of the threshold, someone I had never seen before. A pale, gaunt-looking woman with a head scarf on and a bathrobe was standing there. It looked like it took all of her strength to keep herself upright.

I froze in my place.

“You must be Charlie,” she said in a weak but pleasant voice. “Or is it, Ray?”

I looked down at my coat, making sure my name patch was visible. It was.

“I hate to ask, but would you be able to bring those boxes in? My mother had to run across town and won’t be back for a while.”

Phil and I exchanged looks. We weren’t allowed to enter people’s houses, a rule that was in place even before COVID. It’s not like we had body cameras on us, though. We both picked up our boxes again and followed the woman I immediately knew to be Jenny in to her home.

It was like stepping back in time. Shag carpet, wood paneling, a musty smell. I felt a tug in the back of my memory.

In the room off to the side, I saw Peter sitting on the floor cross-legged, watching television. He didn’t even notice Phil and I.

Jenny padded across to the kitchen, slow and unsteady, and we followed. She gestured to the counter and we set the boxes where directed.

As we did so, I noticed her staring at me. Her eyes were a carbon copy of Peter’s dark browns. She had no eyelashes or brows. Her expression was unreadable.

“Is there anything else you need, ma’am?” I asked without realizing. Phil raised his eyebrows.

Jenny held herself up against the countertop.

“If it wouldn’t be a burden, I would like if you could bring the food in to the house from now on,” she said.

I looked to Phil, seeing if that was alright.

“Unfortunately, ma’am, that’s against our policy. Technically speaking, we aren’t even supposed to be inside here right now,” he said.

“I see.”

“But,” Phil continued, lowering his voice. “No one has to know.” He threw a look at me and I nodded.

Jenny also nodded. “It would be a great help to me.”

I didn’t ask her why Peter, a perfectly able-bodied twelve-year-old boy, could not bring the box in, because I didn’t want to.

“It would be no trouble,” I assured her. And I meant it.

“Thank you…”

“Charlie.”

“Yes.” Jenny smiled knowingly.

“Enjoy your dinner, ma’am. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

We went back out to the truck and got in. I don’t remember how the rest of the day went, finishing our deliveries. It was a blur.

When we arrived back at the warehouse, Kevin put the truck in to park. Phil got out to help someone.

“You’ve been silent as death, Chuck. What’s on your mind?”

I leaned back against the seat, still processing my feelings. I hadn’t realized how numb I had become until that Thanksgiving. Suddenly, a floodgate had opened.

It turned to him and took a breath, breathing out as I responded.

“I saw my mother today.”

Published in the November 27, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 12 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

I don’t know if you’ve almost drowned, but try to imagine it. You’ve fallen in deep water, where your feet don’t touch the bottom and you are nowhere near the surface. Nothing to kick off from or reach out and grab. Just you, flailing your limbs helplessly while trying to hold your breath and not die.

This was exactly how I felt after meeting Jenny. It had been so long since I had felt anything that the emotions crashed over me like waves, pulling me under the violent waters, overwhelming, scary. I tried to make sense of it, figure out which way was up and out, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t sleep Thanksgiving night. I called in sick for Friday’s delivery day. It was my first time doing that since I had had COVID.

That day, I had wandered out to the pool house on my property. There was never any staff out there except to clean, but the pool was closed, so it was perfect for being alone. I sat on a plastic bench, hugging my legs to my body. The heavy scent of chlorine stung my nostrils, appropriately reinforcing the sensation of being unable to catch my breath, as I stared out the large bay window at the patio.

There was no way this was all coincidence. First with Peter calling me Ray, saying I looked just like a Ray he had known when he was little. And his mother, Jenny… a mirror image of the way I remembered my own mother, wasting away from cancer. I don’t remember a lot about her, whether that’s because of the trauma of losing her when I was so young, or because I had blocked her out. The look isn’t something you forget, though. The way the cancer insidiously gnaws the flesh from bone. The sunken way someone’s cheeks look after they’ve endured months of their body fighting alongside poisons and radiation. The appearance of her bathrobe hanging on her body as though she was made of wire. My mother still had light in her eyes, though, even at the end. I will never forget that.

Jenny’s eyes had had the same light in them as she had stared at me in her kitchen.

I wondered what kind of joke was being played on me. Make fun of the spoiled, rich boy by pulling the skeletons out of his closet and making them dance.

But who would have known enough about me to do something this cruel? I’d never met any of The Lunch Bunch before I was thrown on their roster. And I’d never met any of the Rumens before. The only living person who vaguely knew anything about me was Sam.

This had to be a prank, though. Maybe Sam had colluded with the judge. Maybe he was doing some Ghosts of Charlie’s Past bull crap.

Or, maybe, this was something more. Something deeper.

The worst part of all of this all, though, was that I had nothing to numb myself, no tools to cope.

By Saturday night, even my staff had become concerned. I slept in the pool house, so the housekeepers didn’t see me. My chef prepared food and had the table set for every meal, but I hadn’t shown up for a meal since breakfast on Thursday. Even my landscapers, there to get the last of my leaves, were seen in the backyard looking over the hedges and in to my dungeon.

Then, on Sunday morning, there was a knock on the door.

I had been in and out of sleep and nightmares, curled up on the hard, white plastic bench under a beach towel like a squatter. Sam walked in, a heavy coat and leather gloves on.

“Charlie. I was told you would be here,” he said. His words came out with puffs of steam in the freezing air. I had forgotten to turn the heat on. I didn’t even notice how cold it was.

Sam first looked at me, then looked around, trying to find a place to sit. There was a chair next to the bench, so he crossed the room and sat beside me.

Maybe I was still in shock. Maybe I was hypothermic. Maybe I didn’t want to talk to Sam after spending the past two days wondering if he had betrayed me.

“You should go in the house, Charlie. You have a shift tomorrow,” he said simply, leaning forward on his knees.

I only gazed at him.

“You can’t stay here forever.” He sighed. “It’s freezing out here. It’ll kill you eventually.”

“Good.”

My voice was raspy, quiet.

“You don’t mean that.”

But I did mean it. From the bottom of my being. That was the moment I realized it, too.

The numbness I had lived with for most of my life was actually a protective shield hiding what I knew to be true about myself: I had no reason to be there. No number of possessions or fake friends or drugs fixed that. And so, without any of it, I was unable to breathe under the weight of the truth.

“Kevin said you saw your mother on Thanksgiving Day.”

My eyes narrowed. “You talked to Kevin?”

“He talked to me. Said you missed a shift.”

“What, are you my keeper now?”

Sam did not answer this.

So maybe it was true, then.

“No,” I near growled. “I did not see a dead woman on Thanksgiving Day.”

“Charlie.”

“Just leave, Sam.”

“Please, Charlie.”

“Don’t worry, Sam. Tell Kevin I’ll be there Monday. Since you love talking about me.”

I closed my eyes and threw the towel over my head. I heard Sam rise to leave, pausing for a moment. As the door closed behind him, the heat clicked on. It took forever to for me to thaw out.

Published in the December 4, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 13 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

I did make my volunteer shift on Monday morning. It was freezing out now. My Lunch Bunch jacket was feeling pretty loose, so I layered a long sleeve shirt and a sweater underneath. Every time I stepped outside, the cold shocked my lungs into a coughing fit.

Kevin didn’t say a word about the week before, and I didn’t say a word to him. I was still mad at him for talking to Sam. But I was madder at Sam for caring about me.

Meal deliveries progressed as usual. Every now and then, we would add houses to our route as our office received referrals for them. Sometimes we would drop houses from our route if they had a change in circumstances, a death, or a change in financial status. We were not-for-profit but we had guidelines people had to meet to get food from us. It seemed like we were adding more than dropping around the holidays, though.

The days got longer, but I was okay with it. I had checked my hour log and realized that, at this rate, I could be done delivering around my birthday. The more houses we went to, the less days I would have to spend in the truck with Kevin.

Thursday came. It had been a week since I met Jenny and subsequently had a mental breakdown. I was still trying to grapple with my emotions. They came in waves, sometimes manageable, sometimes out of control. Random things would set me off. I saw a bike sitting in someone’s yard and had to breathe through it. I felt like a nut case.

“Do you need me to take this one, Charlie?” Kevin asked as he put the truck in park in front of the Rumen home.

I didn’t dignify him with a response or even by looking at him. I just put on my mask and shield, pulled my hood over my head, and got out. The truck rattled in the December wind as I pulled out the food crate.

My gloved finger pushed their doorbell. There were heavy, fast footsteps running inside. The chain lock clattered against the door, and Peter opened it.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hi, Charlie.” Peter, got out of my way as I wiped my shoes on the outside rug and came in.

Their house was very warm, almost to an uncomfortable point.

“Where do you want this?” I asked him, looking around for Jenny, my heart thudding in my chest.

“Mom wants it on the counter again. She’s in bed.”

“Oh.”

I walked in the direction of the kitchen and got a glimpse in to the living room.

There she was. In a hospital bed that was not there last week.

She was laying peacefully, the upper half of her body elevated, her head facing away from me towards the window, resting on a pillow. She barely took up any room on the mattress. The sunlight peaked through the clouds, falling across her small frame under the blanket. Her breaths were slow and even. She was asleep.

“Charlie?”

I shook my head, realizing I had been staring. Peter was watching me from the kitchen doorway. I followed him in there. Quietly, I set the box where it had been the week before.

“Peter,” I started, unable to help myself. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s just sleeping.”

I nodded. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s got cancer.”

I nodded again, feeling ashamed that I was prying.

“Her nurse was just here, that’s why she’s sleeping. He adjusted her pain medicine,” he said, speaking about her casually, as though your mother slowly dying was an everyday thing.

“Nurse?”

“Yeah, her hospice nurse. He also got her the bed in the living room. She can’t go upstairs anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Her legs don’t work anymore.”

It was like Peter had punched me in the gut. The air left my lungs. An echo of despair soured my stomach. It felt familiar. A memory.

“Are…” I had started asking, but stopped.

Peter looked expectantly at me. Suddenly, in him, I saw another ghost. His hair was long, unkempt. His clothing was different degrees of poor fitting, his flannel button up too big, but his pants seemed too short, showing his white socks almost up to the cuff. His face was thin. I wondered if he had enough to eat in the food boxes we brought. Then I wondered if he had any appetite at all with what he was going through.

I had probably appeared very similar near Peter’s age. Grandfather had scooped me up and rescued me when I was eleven. Who was coming to save Peter?

“Where’s your grandma?” I changed my question.

“She ran to the pharmacy to pick up more medicine.”

“Oh.”

At that point, we started walking back to the front door. Again, I couldn’t resist asking.

“Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

A pause, like he didn’t understand my question.

“I mean, you’ve got a lot going on… How are you doing?” I rephrased.

Again, he didn’t speak, only stared at me. His dark brown eyes were almost black, but the depth they held was overwhelming.

And then, he put his head in his hands and began to weep.

My own eyes went wide. Oh crap. I hadn’t made someone cry in ages.

“I…” I began to apologize, but it wasn’t enough. I remembered words meant little when I had gone through what he was going through. So instead, in a gesture very much unlike me at that time, I put my arms around Peter and held him to my chest. I felt a breakdown coming… But I found the strength to hold it off.

Because behind Peter, in the bed, I saw Jenny watching us, tears running down her cheeks.

Published in the December 11, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 14 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

The following week, the strength I had been given by Jenny in that moment when I held her son stayed within me like the warm glow of a candle flame. I didn’t need to stomp my feelings down so that they felt nonexistent. Instead of shying away from any emotions I experienced, I was strong enough to let them happen.

One morning, I came down the stairs of the foyer to eat breakfast, and slammed my toes on the corner of the railing. I grabbed my toe, cursed loudly enough that the sound echoed through the house, and started to cry. Annie, one of my housekeepers, stopped in her tracks as she was carrying linens from one room to another, unsure of how to react. Another time, I had been checking the mail and saw an ad for a children’s cancer research center. The boy on the cover had red hair, like Peter’s. Again, I was openly ugly crying. My landscapers exchanged glances as I immediately got on the phone and ordered Sam to send them a check for twenty-grand, right on the front steps, through the tears and sobs.

All of my staff thought I had lost my mind. Maybe I had lost it. Or, maybe I had found it. I don’t know. Being philosophical and reflective was something else that was new for me.

Again, Thursday came around. Kevin never gave me grief about spending twenty minutes in the Rumen house the week before. When Peter let me in this time, Jenny was in the bed, but she was awake. There was a rolling table in front of her with a plate full of food on it.

“Hello, Charlie,” she called weakly, smiling.

A man sitting in a chair next to her turned around to see me. A younger guy, probably late twenties, in dark blue scrubs, a mask, and a face shield.

“Go, put that box down and come in here,” she said.

I obeyed, carefully rubbing the snow off of my shoes on the rug, and bringing the food in to the kitchen. Greta was in the kitchen, eating at the table, reading a magazine. Peter was next to her, using his laptop with headphones. I was pretty sure this was the first time I saw him doing school work.

Then I went back to the living room. The man held his stethoscope over Jenny’s chest. She was taking long breaths in, appearing to struggle to do so.

“Are you short of breath at all?” he asked her, taking the earpieces out of his ears.

“Yes, a little,” she said.

Then he took something off of her finger, reading it as he did. “Have you been using the oxygen concentrator at all?”

“Not yet.”

“Here, I can help you get it set up.”

Jenny waved him off. “We can do that later. I want you to meet someone.”

Then she gestured for me to come up to her bedside. I did so, feeling out of place.

“Jack, this is Charlie. He delivers food for us. Charlie, this is Jack, my home nurse.”

I shook Jack’s hand. He had large hands and a strong grip. Behind his face shield, his hazel eyes were kind.

“So, you’re Charlie! Jenny talks about you often,” he remarked in a deep voice.

I felt my cheeks warm under my PPE. I didn’t know what to say.

Jack turned back to Jenny. “Okay, well, if you don’t want the concentrator set up now, I’ll go let your mother know how to set it up for later.” He left the room.

Jenny was smiling up at me. She patted the bed beside her.

Coming into the house was breaking The Lunch Bunch’s rules. Sitting on her bed should have gotten me suspended and ruined my parole. But no one had to know, and there was no way I could say no to Jenny.

As I sat down, the waterproof mattress beneath the thin bed sheet crinkled. I put my hands on my thighs, unsure of what to do with myself.

“Charlie, you don’t have to be uncomfortable. Make yourself at home.”

But I didn’t know how to do that. Suddenly, I realized I didn’t know what home meant. Grandfather always told me that his house was my own, but it felt more like he was just giving me another possession. Dad’s house never felt like home. It always felt like it was missing something.

“Can you do something for me, Charlie?”

I nodded.

“Please take off that ridiculous mask and shield.”

My shoulders sank. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“I could get in trouble.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“I could get you sick.”

“I’m already dying.”

Oof, that one hurt, though it was the truth.

“Please, Charlie. You have been helping us since summer and I don’t even know what you look like now.”

What I looked like now? What did she mean? Had she seen me before?

“I promise you will be okay. Please let me see your face.”

Me obeying her in that moment could have hurt either of us, either her wellbeing or my parole. But I removed my shield and pulled off my mask

Jenny drank me in, my blue eyes, my sharp cheek bones, my clefted chin, my long black hair, and then my eyes again. When she was done, she beamed.

“Just as I was expecting. Thank you,” she sighed, closing her eyes to rest.

And in that moment, I realized what Ray’s house had been missing. A Jenny. A mom.

Published in the December 18, 2025 Hardin County Independent.

---

Chapter 15 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 It was the week before Christmas 2020. The scheduler from The Lunch Bunch had gotten a hold of me to tell me that my final day, as long as I did not call in and completed all of my hours as planned, would be Thursday, December 31^st, 2020, less than a year after my release from prison, and one day before my 35^th birthday.

 I knocked on the Rumens’s door that day, pondering this as I held their food delivery box close to me. My three layers of clothing under my jacket weren’t holding up against the bone penetrating chill. A gale blew through my face shield, creating a wind tunnel around my face and eyes.

 Less than a year it had taken to complete the final step of repaying my debt to society. I was beginning to realize that this was not enough time. As though I was waking up, seeing things clearer, I started to understand that it was going to take a lot more than this to make up for everything I had done, and I’m not just referring to that night at Central Memorial Hospital.

 The door flung open and I looked up from my reverie… in to the face of Jenny Rumen.

 “Charlie! So glad you’re here!” she exclaimed in a strong, lovely voice.

 Jenny was a completely different woman. Her skin was glowing around her shining eyes. She held herself without a struggling or needing to lean on something. Her grin seemed brighter, more brilliant. Her clothing was immaculate and didn’t seem to hang on her like usual; her body seemed petite and feminine, instead of skeletal and delicate. The scarf she wore on her head was a silk scarf this time, and it matched the crimson shirt she was wearing underneath her kitchen apron. She was even wearing bright red lipstick.

 “Please, come in! It’s freezing out there!” She opened the door further and I followed her in to the house.

 The house was also different. It was pleasantly warm this time, not sweltering like usual. The Christmas tree was visible in the living room, positioned at the end of the hospital bed and fully dressed with lights, tinsel, and ornaments. Everything was clean. The musty smell that I had previously noted, something that had seemed to be embedded in the old wood panel walls and ancient shag carpeting, was gone and replaced by the scent of oranges, baking bread, and pine cleaner.

 Jenny led the way to the kitchen, and I noticed how gracefully she moved. Just two weeks ago, Peter had said that her legs stopped working. How could this be? Did her doctor find a new treatment for her cancer? Surely any kind of treatment wouldn’t work this fast.

 In the kitchen, another miracle. Greta was standing at the counter, smiling as she rolled out dough for cookies. Peter was standing next to her, frosting cookies that had already been baked. The radio was playing Christmas music in the background.

 Peter looked up from his work and broke in to a grin.

 “Charlie!” he exclaimed, the dimple on his chin deepening.

 “Hey, kid.”

 The counters were full of food in progress, so I brought the box over to the dining room table. There were piles of freshly polished silverware, nice plates, and red and green placemats, ready to set the table. It was like being in a Pier One Imports.

 “Here, Peter prepared these for you.” Jenny came around the counter, again moving so elegantly that it was foreign to me, holding a paper plate of Christmas cookies. They were trees, frosted messily with green and covered in multicolored candies like little fairy lights.

 “I wanted to make sure you got some before I ate the rest,” Peter joked. Greta elbowed him, but didn’t look disdainful as she usually did.

 I took the plate. “Thank you.”

 “Hey mom, can I ask him?” Peter requested of Jenny.

 “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

 “Can you come to the party tonight?”

 I blinked.

 “What?”

 “We’re having our Christmas party a little early. My aunt and uncle are going to be out of town next week, so that’s why we’re doing it now.”

 I turned to look at Jenny. She was leaning her back against the counter, not for support but just as a stance, holding a cup of cocoa and smiling. Again, I was taken aback. Who was she?

 “I, umm,” I started, swallowing dryly. “I don’t think I’m allowed.”

 “If you’re worried about Gustav, don’t be,” Jenny reassured, taking a sip of her drink.

 Since when did she know my boss? None of my clients did.

 “But-“

 “It would mean a great deal to me if you could come, Charlie,” Jenny appealed. “Dinner starts at six.”

 Suddenly, I felt awkward. A stranger in this house. Why were they inviting me to a private family occasion? I was just their food delivery guy. I showed up around the same time every week, dropped a box, and left. I’d never been this nice to the pizza man. I didn’t even invite my house staff to parties unless they were working the event.

 In a deep part of my chest, a dark area that I had become aware of recently, the ghosts that hovered like poisonous vapors above the surface started to rise to try to consume me… And they whispered it was because the Rumens felt bad for me.

 A charity case. Did they think I was one? Me? Charlie Fischer the Third, sole heir to a fortune of hundreds of billions of dollars left to me by Charlie Fischer the First, real estate mogul, venture capitalist, and prior longtime placeholder on the Forbes Billionaires List?

 “I’ll, uhh, think about it,” I mumbled, suddenly rushing from the room, unable to breathe, needing to cough.

 “Six o’clock!” Jenny called after me.

 When I got outside, I ripped the mask and shield off and breathed the icy air, going into a coughing fit, trying to expel the ghosts from my chest.

Published in the January 8, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 16– Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental

 I didn’t know what I was doing there.

 6:08 p.m. Fashionably late. Carrying a plate of something my chef made.

 After initially leaving the Rumens’ and having a mild panic attack and coughing fit on their doorstep, I had gone numb again. I guess that’s what the ghosts that lived in my chest did. Instead of making me sick with their poisonous gases, their vapors numbed me. After weeks of having emotions like a normal human, returning to that anesthetized state had been alarming, looking back now. I had had to keep it cool around Kevin, though. No need to drag him into my messed up inner world.

 My route had ended around 4 pm and Kevin had dropped me in the circle drive of my mansion. I had paced up the steps and opened the door. In what had felt like a truly autopilot moment, I had gone to the kitchen, asked my chef to package something for me to bring to a party, and then went and changed out of my Lunch Bunch clothes.

 My driver, who did a lot of running errands for my house staff but not a lot of bringing me places, had been shocked to see me come in to the garage. I had given him the address of the Rumens’ house.

 “Sir… Is this the correct address?” he had asked, skeptical.

 “Yes.”

 He had eyed me. Looking back, I’m wondering if he probably thought I was back on the drugs and that this was the address of a new supplier. Not having the connections that I had had before prison, he probably thought I was going to a rougher part of town to get my fix.

 If only he knew I was going to a dinner party on a pity invite. He would have laughed in my face, probably. At least, that’s what the ghosts murmured from their lair.

 After much confusion and, again, skepticism on his part, he had obliged and given me a ride.

 And then there I was. Standing on the front step, a Ralph Lauren sweater than seemed Christmasy hidden under my winter coat, a hot plate of whatever my chef thought would be appropriate in one hand.

 I knocked on the door with my free hand.

 This time, Peter answered the door.

 “You came, Charlie!” he exclaimed, beaming. In the light of the street lamps behind me, his face was the definition of childhood Christmas magic.

 Any doubt, confusion, or animosity about being pitied melted away immediately. His joy was a balm and it was contagious. I smiled.

 “You’re not wearing your mask either!” he said as he invited me in.

 “I figured your mom would tell me to take it off anyway.” I climbed out of my snowy boots on the rug.

 Peter took my coat and hung it on a hook near the door. There were two other coats hanging beside it.

 We entered the kitchen. The radio was still playing Christmas music, but had been turned down to allow for conversation. Greta was pulling an enormous, roasted bird out of the oven. Jenny was sitting at the table, laughing at whatever the woman guest was saying.

 Again, I was taken aback by the sight of her, this complete stranger. I wondered what had come over her, what miraculous healing had taken place. I had never believed in hokey Christmas miracles before… but now…

 Jenny’s eyes met mine then. She had been smiling before, but she lit up even brighter, if that was possible.

 “There he is, the guest of honor!” she cried, pushing up from the table.

 She crossed the room and, in an unexpected gesture, hugged me. I froze, conscious of my own body and the plate of food in my hand. This was the first time a woman had hugged me since I was dating, and I was acutely aware of how gorgeous Jenny was.

 “What changed your mind?” she asked.

 “What do you mean?”

 “I saw your apprehensiveness earlier. I thought you may not come.”

 “My, umm, my evening was open,” I said pathetically.

 But Jenny just laughed again, the same dimple Peter had showing up on her chin.

 “Peter, come meet my sister, Renee!” Jenny directed me to the table.

 I shook hands with the woman, who looked like a plumper version of Jenny. She appeared as though she was realizing something as she did so, though I didn’t know what that meant.

 “And this is her husband, Alfred.”

 I shook hands with the man, who looked to be in his 40’s, but with a full head of gray hair and a fluffy mustache. He looked amused.

 “Please, come have a seat. Peter, get Charlie something to drink, please,” Jenny commanded, gesturing to the seat beside hers.

 And then I sat down to my first home-cooked, small-town Christmas dinner since before my own mother, my own Jenny, had died.

Published in the January 15, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 17 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 Looking back on holiday events at Grandfather’s house, none could compare to Christmas dinner at the Rumens’.

 Greta had gone all out on the meal, offering a salad and bread to start. After the final touches of basting and buttering and seasoning, the turkey appeared at the table. Alfred cut in to it and we passed our plates around, serving each other meat, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, glazed carrots, and deviled eggs (something you would never see at Grandfather’s party buffet table).

 I couldn’t put my finger on it, but everything was seasoned perfectly and delicious. I didn’t know Greta’s professional background; maybe she was some kind of culinary extraordinaire. Maybe it was the company, or it was the mismatching candles in the centerpiece, or the way we all bumped elbows occasionally at the crowded table.

 The conversation was different, too. Grandfather’s associates always would talk about their great escapes across the globe, or their latest investments in this company or that property, or which A-lister had shaken their hand and drank with them at the newest bar on some coast, always with the purpose of one-upping each other. Everything was painted as lively, colorful, exciting. But if you listened closely, you could hear how empty their lives were.

 At the Rumens’ table, there was gossip. No one seemed to mind that a stranger was sitting next to them as they brought up embarrassing memories like having to go to the bathroom on the side of the road because they had missed the last rest stop for a hundred miles (“I was playing my Switch, okay?” Peter had exclaimed as every one laughed at him). None of them seemed to care I was there when Greta brought up that Renee and Jenny, as teenagers, almost started their house on fire after leaving the oven on with cookies in it, then deciding to run to the store to get milk (“At least we were ungrounded before we graduated, right?” Renee had remarked as Greta rolled her eyes. “Yeah! And I only had to babysit that snotty neighborhood boy for three years to pay off my part of the stove,” Jenny reminded Greta as she shook her head.)

 Then, as plates grew empty and bellies grew rounder, we got to the deeper family stories. When Jenny and Renee’s father had died when they were toddlers, and their inebriated Great Uncle Patrick tried to give his body a drink of whiskey in the casket. When Renee had met Alfred and eloped to the Bahamas, swearing Jenny to secrecy until they had returned. When Peter was born in the middle of a late spring blizzard, almost being delivered in a snow bank in the emergency room parking lot.

 “Charlie, I hope we’re not boring you too much with all of this,” Jenny said as Peter grabbed her dirtied plate from in front of her. Greta was standing at the counter, cutting in to the pies. She had asked what kind I wanted, between pumpkin, raspberry, and French Silk. I had chosen the raspberry.

 “No, not at all,” I said in earnest. “This is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

 Jenny beamed at me. It was like a ray of sunshine warming my skin.

 “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. But we’ve also been very rude, not asking you much about yourself. Is your family as embarrassing as ours?”

 “I mean, aren’t all families a little embarrassing?”

 “Maybe. But maybe not. How is your family ‘a little embarrassing?’”

 The ghosts in my chest stirred. Where could I begin? Actually, where did I even want to begin?

 “Well…”

 “Oh, Jenny, leave the boy be. He’s our guest,” Greta scolded, setting down a piece of pie in front of me.

 “Mother, I’m just trying to be polite.”

 “Besides,” Peter interjected. “Charlie seems like the least embarrassing person I know.”

 At that, I chuckled. “Says the guy that used to hose me down every time he’d see me.”

 Then everyone joined me in laughter, even Greta. Renee and Alfred seemed to know what I was talking about. He had probably bragged about it to them, knowing him.

 “Yeah, but you’re so polite and quiet. Kind of like how Ray was.”

  The laughter stopped.

Published in the January 22, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

 

Chapter 18 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 The Rumens’ table fell silent. The Christmas music in the background seemed louder, booming over the awkward cloud that suddenly loomed over the party.

 Once again, Peter had brought up Ray out of left field.

 “How do you know my father?” I asked, sounding breathless.

 Peter blushed, looking like he had done something wrong. Greta glared at him like he had.  Renee and Alfred were staring at different places on the table, anywhere but at anyone. Jenny was looking at me, sadness in her face for the first time that evening.

 “Ray,” Jenny said quietly. Reverently. “Ray was a very special man to our family.”

 I felt my pulse pick up.

 “I was a young widow. Peter was five years old when his father was killed in Iraq. I had received the notification when I was working at a diner. One moment, an officer in full uniform was asking to speak with me in my manager’s office. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the hospital. I had fainted from the shock.”

 Across the table, Peter swallowed. Whereas his cheeks had been beet red a moment before, they were now whiter than the tablecloth.

 Jenny continued. “At the time, I had been working as a waitress, but after even the widow’s benefits had kicked in and me getting a second job, I was struggling to make ends meet. Our social worker through Peter’s school was giving me information about various resources, including food assistance through an organization called The Lunch Bunch.”

 I felt my eyes widen.
“We started receiving meal deliveries. Our delivery man was an older gentleman. Tall, and skinny, with gray and black hair, and blue eyes.” Her face was very tender. Her eyes glistened in the candlelight of the table’s centerpiece.

 “From the moment I met Ray, I knew he was special. He always made a point of stopping and asking about my day, about how Peter was doing in school. He would remember things about our lives. He even asked me about Josh.”

 Her voice broke. The tears that had been pooling in her eyes dripped down her cheeks. She crossed her arms over her chest like she was cold. For a moment, she appeared frail again, as she had before.

 “Over time, I trusted him enough to invite him to Peter’s soccer and t-ball games. Then he met Renee and Alfred and mom, and he was invited to family events. In a time of great pain for our family, Ray was like the father I never had, and like the grandfather Peter never had. His kindness and care for us is something we will never forget.”

 Those words rang in my head. In my most ancient memories, I remembered people talking about Ray like this. He was really, truly a wonderful person to everyone.

 Everyone except me.

 “So, wait,” I intercepted, trying to get pieces to go together in my head. “He was diagnosed with cancer in 2010. I know because he had tried to reach me then. How was he still volunteering in 2014?” He had died later that year. Surely, he had been in no position to do work like that.

 “I really don’t know how he did it. We didn’t even know about his cancer until part of the way through the year, as he was getting weaker. We were devastated when he told us.” Jenny looked down. “We were even more devastated when he died.”

 Again, the ghosts hovered hungrily in the darkness in my chest. This was just the feast they were looking for, ready to take their places at the table amongst all of us. The hollow numbness threatened to take back over.

 “I wish I could say the same.”

 Jenny looked up at me, crying. At the time, I meant every word of that.

 “Charlie, I know you didn’t come here tonight to talk about any bad memories or blood between you and your father, and I know you did not expect to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway.  Your father loved you.”

 I felt my mouth fall open.

 “I don’t- “

 “I’m not done,” she interrupted me, her voice stern and strong through her tears. “During the time I knew Ray, he talked about you like you were his little boy. I never knew an old man who talked so much about his son. It reminded me of how Josh would talk about Peter to anyone who would listen.”

 Peter laughed, adding light to the moment. He had a hand over his mouth, and his eyes were bright red with tears.

 Jenny continued. “I don’t know what happened between the two of you, and it was and will never be my business, but I do know this. He never stopped loving you.”

 Suddenly, I was back in 2010. A stressed-out student severely lacking drugs and alcohol, my pen shaking in my hand as I studied for finals. My phone rang on the desk beside me, nearly sending me in to a high-speed-come-apart. I checked the screen. It said “Ray.”

 I rolled my eyes and hit the end button, going back to my paper.

 Again, the phone rang. “Ray.”

 I slammed my fist down, then grabbed the phone and answered, shouting, “Yes, Ray?”

 And then… that’s it. That’s all I can remember.

 As I stared in to Jenny’s eyes, feeling everyone else watching us, not knowing what to expect next, I realized the origin of the dull, hollow roar of emptiness that occupied the air where my ghosts lived.

 It was from the next sentence in that phone call. An unremembered, forgotten string of words, in a voice I would never hear again.

 And in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hear it.

 

Published in the January 29, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 19 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 The meal finished up quietly after that.

 I didn’t know what to say. I had never been in an awkward situation like that before. Usually, the old Charlie would have either played it cool, never telling anyone how he really felt (let alone shedding tears at the dinner table like I was), or he would have blown up at everyone in the room and stormed out (like I had at my last birthday party). He didn’t tolerate being made a fool of in any capacity. Little did he know that being human did not equate to being a fool.

 Peter walked me to the door after I had finished picking at my pie. Renee and Greta had started doing the dishes, and gave me back the plate I had brought. Jenny had quietly excused herself from the table, but I wasn’t sure where she had gone after that.

 I slipped in to my shoes and coat while Peter leaned against the wall, arms folded.

 “I’m sorry I brought up your dad, Charlie,” Peter apologized, clearly still in a state of chagrin.

 I put my hand up. “Don’t worry about it, kid.”

 “No, I really shouldn’t have.” His red hair, which was getting long, hung in his eyes as he lowered his head. “It’s weird when people bring up your dead dad.”

 Another moment of finding similarities in this boy, this lanky almost-teenager. He knew exactly what it was like to lose a father. He was only five when he lost his dad, though. I was a grown man. I wondered how he had handled it when it happened, if he even understood what it meant when people told him his dad was never coming back. I bet he never even punched anyone about it.

 “I just wasn’t expecting it, is all. My dad and I weren’t talking much when he died.”

 I didn’t want to admit the embarrassing truth that I didn’t even know he was dying when it was his time.

 “I just couldn’t help it!” he explained, becoming animated. “I still can’t believe how similar you two are, from what I remember as a kid. You look the same, act the sa- “

 I cut him off. “Really, it’s okay.”

 He put his hands in his pockets and nodded, having trouble making eye contact with me.

 “I should probably get going, kid. Thanks for the invite for tonight.” I hoped that didn’t sound sarcastic because, despite the turn in conversation, the beginning was very pleasant. Like being part of a real family and everything. Like a work of fiction.

 I opened the door to go and took one last look around the house. The smell of the pine and citrus and dinner remnants still sat in my nostrils. The sound of Christmas music had stopped and been replaced with the sound of clanking dishes being cleaned and put away. In the living room, the colorfully lit Christmas tree stood near the end of the unused hospital bed. I distantly wondered if, since Jenny was doing so well, it would be moved out before Christmas next week.

 Come tomorrow, on my next shift with Kevin, I was going to request a new Thursday route for the rest of my short time with The Lunch Bunch. It was for the best. These people didn’t need my baggage, and I didn’t need theirs either.

Published in the February 5, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

 

Chapter 20 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 “You can’t be serious.”

 “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

 “Chuck. You only have a couple weeks left.”

 “I know.”

 “That’s two weeks, only two more.”

 “I know.”

 Kevin put down the two crates he had been loading in to the back of the van. The exhaust from the tail pipe clouded around him. I coughed, but suppressed the urge to go in to a fit, holding a gloved hand to my mouth.

 “What happened?”

 Dread thrilled through me. Did he know I had been to dinner at the Rumens’? I never mentioned it to him after our drop off yesterday, though Jenny did shout out the door at me when I was leaving. And, if he did somehow know, was I in trouble? This wouldn’t be the first time we had broken the rules for this specific family, but I wondered how far was too far.

 I shrugged. “Nothing,” I bluffed.

 “Don’t lie to me.”

 “I’m not,” I lied anyway, feeling the acid in my stomach rise, hoping I was being convincing enough.

 Kevin put his hands on his hips. “You’ve been doing this route for almost a year and now suddenly you want to change things. I’m not dumb, Chuck.”

 “Would you please stop calling me that?” I pleaded, trying diversion from the topic.

 “Look, I’m not your boss. Gustav is. If you want to change your route, you’ll have to go through him, but I don’t think he’s going to oblige you.”

 “Why not?”

 “Because you’ve built rapport with these people. Not just the Rumens. There are several people on the Thursday route that have taken a liking to you, believe it or not.”

 That gave me pause. Other people on the Thursday route. Thursday was our longest day of the week, so it was full of people. For some reason, though, I had never considered them before.

 I thought about Mr. Fletcher, an old Vietnam War vet who would answer the door in his wheelchair. He would turn his own wheels to get through the house to me, and would take the box right from me (normally, we would leave the box on the doorstep, except if the recipient was unable to pick the box up from the ground). His eye patch, painted with a fake, blue, upside down eye (next to his real, dark brown, right-side-up eye), was always on when he answered the door, which I found out later was a compliment. He liked to scare the new delivery people with what was underneath, and if he didn’t like you, he would keep it off. By my fifth visit, though, he was putting the patch on, much like someone would put on a bathrobe before answering the door.

 Then I thought about Lilith Macbeth. She was a forty-year-old shut-in with multiple sclerosis. She always sat by the open window near her front door. At the first visit, she said hi to me, and we would talk ever since. We both enjoyed the same local baseball team, but we liked opposing state hockey teams. Somehow, even though I had been coming there since the summer, we still found a way to keep talking about these topics without it getting boring.

 There were the Johnsons, a young couple, both with cerebral palsy and both brokers who worked remotely, who would talk the stock market with me. And there was Cagan, a blind man who used to bike around the country and even in Europe. There was the unstoppable Phillipa Casteno, a young mother of five children, working on her Bachelor’s in healthcare administration and working two jobs, who appreciated every box we brought for her and promised she’d make it up to me some day.

 The faces of these recipients flashed through my mind as Kevin turned around and continued loading boxes. For the rest of the day, I thought of them between my visits with my Friday people.

 The longer I thought about it, the more meaningful my time with these people was becoming. For the first time in as long as I could remember at that time, I felt remorse. I had been so willing to give up my route because of one awkward encounter, wanting to save face and more embarrassment for myself, not even realizing how much my showing up probably meant to these people.

 These people, all of them, needed me. I had never been needed before. I hadn’t known how to be needed, but I was learning.

 That little moment in the warehouse of the Lunch Bunch headquarters was another turning point, much like meeting Jenny had been.

And then, I realized… I had to go back there, back to the Rumens’ house. They probably needed me more than anyone else.

 That was made evident too soon.

 

Published in the February 12, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 21 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 It was Saturday, December 19^th, 2020 at 3:47 in the morning when my cell phone rang on my bedside table.

 I had finished my Lunch Bunch route earlier in the day, spent some time lifting weights in the gym in my basement (a hobby I was trying), ate dinner, and fell asleep with internet videos going on the giant screen in my bedroom.

 At first when I awoke, I thought maybe I had rolled over on the tv remote and turned the volume all of the way up. When I looked up, though, a cat played a piano on the screen, the sound almost on mute.

 My phone rang again. I rubbed my eyes and grabbed it. The screen showed a number I didn’t recognize.

 I hit the red button and rolled back over to go to sleep. I hadn’t been drunk dialed in a long time, and I suspected that maybe someone from the old days had gotten my number. Who else would be up at this hour?

 A few moments later, my eyes popped open as my ringtone sounded again.

 The same number was on the screen.

 I had half a sleepy mind to cuss out the person on the other end, but I decided to see who it was first.

 “Hello?” I rasped, my mouth dry, a cough waiting at the bottom of my throat.

 “Charlie?” a panicked voice asked on the other end of the call.

 “Who is this?”

 “It’s Peter.”

 That was as good as cold water splashed on my face. I sat up quickly.

 “How’d you get my number?” I questioned.

 “Charlie, please. Mom’s real sick.”

 This time, the cold water splashed in to my chest. My heart fluttered.

 “What?”

 “She started saying she wasn’t feeling too good yesterday and now, she won’t wake up.”

 “Peter, it’s almost four in the morning. She’s probably just sleeping.”

 “She’s breathing funny, real fast. I tried to shake her awake but all she does is moan. Her eyes won’t even open or close all of the way.”

 I threw my legs over the side of the bed.

 “Where’s your grandmother?”

 “She’s asleep. I’m too scared to wake her up. She’s going to freak out.”

 “Did you call an ambulance?”

 “Should I?”

 “Why wouldn’t you, if she’s that sick?”

 “Because mom has a DNR order.”

 “A what?”

 “She said…” His voice trailed off and I heard him take a breath in. “She said before that, if she dies, that I shouldn’t call an ambulance, just to call hospice.”

 Before any words could come to me, I heard him start to gasp for air and cry.

 This was another new thing for me: Being responsible. You may laugh at me, a 34-year-old man at that time, but it was true. Even as a grown adult, everything was taken care of for me. My estate was overseen by Sam. My house staff cared for the details of my life, from the cooking to the cleaning to the driving. I didn’t even have to drive myself to my court-appointed community service; I just had to be clean and dressed and waiting in my drive way.

 But this was a 12-year-old little boy. I was old enough to be his father. He was crying and he needed a grown up.

 I flipped on the lamp beside my bed, bracing myself to try to fill this role for him.

 “Peter, I need you to take a breath for me.”

 After a moment, I heard him take in a hitching breath.

 “Okay, kid. You need to wake up your grandma.”

 “I want you here, Charlie.”

 I shook my head. “I don’t think I can make it over there.”

 “Please, just come over.”

 “I can’t drive.”

 “Please, please!” He started crying again.

 “Peter, breathe for me,” I instructed, trying to sound calm.

 In the background of the call, I heard someone say “Peter?”

 Then the line disconnected.

 I looked at the phone in my hand. 3:54 a.m.

 Without another thought, I unlocked the screen and went in to my directory, dialing the first person I could think of.

 It rang multiple times. Just as I thought it would go to voicemail, a voice sounding as groggy as mine answered.

 “Charlie? Is everything okay?” Sam asked, sounding like he was suppressing a yawn.

 “I need a ride.”

 “What?”

 “I need to go somewhere. I don’t know if my driver will be fast enough.” Even though he was on-call 24/7, I wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get to my place.

 After a pause, Sam asked, “Where do you need to go?”

 Fifteen minutes later, I had brushed my teeth, thrown on three layers of clothing, and was standing on the front steps of my drive. Still, the early morning wind cut through me. I started to cough, sending cascades of steam in to the night. Around me, little flurries were starting to fall. Sam’s SUV turned from the road and in to my circle drive.

 I was still coughing when I got in, but the warm vehicle settled it down. Sam didn’t say anything as I buckled in and he drove us off.

 We were another 22 minutes from our destination. His GPS guided us, the only voice in the car. I was thankful for the lack of questions and small talk.

 As we pulled up in front of the Rumens’ house, I was already unbuckling.

 “Do you need me to come in with you?” Sam asked.

 I shook my head. “No. Not yet.”

 He nodded and gestured for me to go.

 I got to the front door as the snow, picking up, assailed me.

 After I had knocked, Greta answered in her bathrobe.

 We stared at each other through the screen door. She had her arms crossed, her braid falling over her shoulder. She looked stern as usual, but more than anything, she looked scared.

 She walked away from the door then. I took that as permission to come in.

Published in the February 19, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 22 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

The smells of Christmas were still in the house, but the atmosphere had completely changed. The kitchen and hallway lights were off. It was silent in the house except for some kind of machine noise with an occasional puff. I stepped out of my shoes and looked to the right, in to the living room.

 There was a lamp on next to an arm chair, the yellow light catching dust particles that swirled around a rectangular machine that was the only noise-making thing in the room. The Christmas tree at the end of the hospital bed, festive and colorfully lit last time I was there, was turned off. It added to the dull, edgy feel of the room. Greta had returned to a folding chair that was seated by the head of the hospital bed. She was staring at the bed’s occupant, the corners of her eyes creased, her lips tightly shut.

 And there she was. Jenny, who just over 24 hours ago was vibrant and radiant, was now not even a shell of the person I had seen before her revival. The scarf was gone from her head, and her bald scalp had a sheen of sweat over it. Her eyes were half closed, her sunken cheeks puffing in and out faster than what seemed comfortable for a normal person, her chest heaving. There was a single sheet over her emaciated body, which was drowning in some kind of yellow night gown. It made her skin look even more sallow than it was. She wasn’t moving at that moment, but her body was tense.

 How? I thought to myself. Just as I had thought to myself not two days ago. How was this the same woman I had seen previously?

 “What happened?” was all I could manage, not moving from my spot in the hallway.

 Greta continued to stare at her daughter. She said nothing to me.

 Behind me, there was a knock at the door. Greta did not move, so I answered.

 A familiar, stocky man stood on the steps.

 “Hello, Charlie,” the hospice nurse who I remembered to be Jack greeted, moving to come in, stomping the snow off of his boots on the way.

 “Hello.”

 He started removing his jacket, holding a large bag aloft as he did so, looking in to the living room.

 “Did you just arrive?” he asked absently. It appeared as though he was already assessing the situation across the house.

 “Yes.”

 Jack pulled some kind of mat from his bag as he entered the house. He set it down on the arm chair and set his bag on top of it. As he sanitized his hands, he looked between Greta and Jenny.

 “I apologize for my delay. How long ago was her last morphine?” he asked, jumping in quickly.

 “Right when we called you,” Greta responded, her voice vacant.

 “Any Ativan yet?”

 “No. The morphine seemed to help- “

 Just as Greta was responding, Jenny began to come to life. Her hands moved from her sides to her night gown and sheets, beginning to pull at them. She did not open her eyes, her head moved as she began to groan.

 “Get me out of this,” I heard her mumble, her skinny arms and hands trembling.

 Greta moved to put a hand on Jenny to settle her.

 “I’m late. I have to get home. Get this off of me,” Jenny commanded as she grabbed feebly at her clothing and bed linens, trying to get them away from her body.

 Jack turned to a table next to the arm chair, where there were bottles and syringes.

 “I think we should try some haloperidol to help calm her. We will do some more morphine as well,” he said as he started to prepare the medications. He looked at me. “Charlie, can you go get a glass of water from the kitchen?”

 I nodded and did as he said, turning around to head to the kitchen.

 When I got in there, I found Peter, sitting at the dining room table, his head in his hands. I paused for a moment when I saw him, but hearing Jenny groan again made me move. I started checking cabinets, looking for cups.

 “They’re in the left upper cabinet next to the sink,” Peter’s muffled voice directed in to his palms.

 I went to that cabinet, filled a glass with tap water, and went back in to the living room, wondering if Peter would follow. He did not.

 Jack had a medicine cup next to him. I brought him the glass, and he drew up a small amount of water in a tiny syringe, putting it in to the medicine cup. A little white pill in the cup started to dissolve, and he drew it up with some liquid I presumed to be morphine.  He moved quickly and efficiently, but was calm, not frazzled the way I felt every time Jenny let out a noise.

 “I have to go home. Please,” she pleaded, her voice gaining volume.

 Jack crossed the room with the syringe. Standing next to Greta, he bent down and slowly put some liquid in Jenny’s mouth, then massaged her cheek. He repeated it, seeming to change sides of her mouth where he gave the medicine. When he was done, he walked over to his bag and grabbed a pen and paper. He was starting a medication log.

 “Has she been running a fever long?” Jack asked as he wrote.

 Greta rubbed Jenny’s arm. “She felt a little warm earlier in the day, but I thought it was just because the heat was turned up.”

 “It’s probably a terminal fever. That means the part of her brain that controls temperature is shutting down. As long as she’s comfortable, keep the sheet on. I’ll get a wash cloth.”

 As Jack was leaving the room, Jenny opened her eyes.

 Immediately, she found me.

 “Ray.”

Published in the February 26, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 23 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

  Jenny’s eyes bore in to me from across the room.

 “Ray,” she repeated, her voice weak and breathless.

 Greta felt like a brick wall, sitting in the chair beside Jenny. I couldn’t see Greta’s face, but I could feel the tension suddenly rolling off of her. I wanted to go to Jenny’s bedside, but I felt a force pushing me back, daring me to come any closer.

 Jack reentered the room, carrying a damp wash cloth.

 “Here you go,” he said as he handed it to Greta, who immediately brought it to Jenny’s head. Jenny continued looking at me, her sunken eyes focused.

 “Hey Charlie, can I borrow you for a moment?” Jack requested.

 I nodded, and we went in to the entryway together. I knew whatever he said would be heard by both the living room and kitchen occupants, but there was nowhere else to go.

 “I wanted to touch base with you,” Jack whispered. “How are you?”

 I blinked. How was I? At that point, I was still getting over the mentality that I was always the most important person in the room, but his question caught me off guard.

 “I’m… here,” I responded. It sounded like I was asking him how I felt, which wasn’t too far off base. Since I had been woken by the phone call from Peter, I did not have a name for the turmoil inside of me.

 He nodded, his eyes kind but still assessing as he looked at me, the bottom half of his face hidden under his medical mask.

 “Though,” I continued, “I’m wondering… What happened?”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Did you see her Thursday?”

 “Yes.”

 “Well?” I trailed off, expecting that he would catch my drift.

 He apparently did. “She had a very good day that day.”

 “She was… Perfect.”

 And she had been. I turned to look at the woman in her bed. She was still watching me from across the room. In a desperate, strained voice, she was repeating my dead father’s name. Greta kept her back turned to me as she tried to calm Jenny down.

 “Have you ever been around someone who is dying before?” Jack asked.

 My arm hairs under my three layers of clothing stood on end.

 When I had met Jenny at Thanksgiving, I had seen her then. Every time I looked at Jenny since then, I would get glimpses of her.

 But she was never closer than in this moment.

 Because in that hospital bed, I saw her again. Real, blood and bone, fighting to breathe and keep me in her line of sight. Back from the dead, already dying once again, wasting away before my eyes.

 “My mom,” I responded, staring in to her eyes.

 Jack glanced at Jenny, then back to me. I felt like he somehow knew what was happening, this lifting of the veil. My heart was racing. My stomach churned like I was going to be sick. It was then I realized the turmoil inside of me was fear, but I didn’t understand why I was afraid.

 “Did your mom ever have any good days before she died?” Jack asked me.

 I shrugged, licking my lips, trying not to throw up. “I don’t remember. I was seven.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “Thanks.”

 Jack cleared his throat. “When someone is getting near the end of their life, sometimes they will have what is called a rally.”

 “A rally,” I repeated.

 “Yes,” he went on. “It’s a last burst of energy before they go. It looks different for everyone. For some people, they may get out of bed for the first time in a long time. Sometimes they’ll eat, even if they had stopped eating before. Sometimes, if they were confused before, they may have a short period of clarity, where they remember things and can talk like it’s a normal day.”

 For Jenny, it had been all of the above. Again, she had been perfect.

 “Then, after that, they will either revert back to where they were or will be worse than they were before.”

 “Why does it happen?” I asked. It seemed like a cruel trick. I had really thought Jenny had suddenly improved. I wouldn’t be lying if I said that I had imagined what her life would be like going forward, and if I would continue to be in it.

 “The science behind it is uncertain. We don’t know exactly what causes someone to rally, biologically.” He put his hands in his scrub pockets. “But there are people that view it as a person’s final gift. For their loved ones, for themselves.”

 A gift. Peter, Greta, and Renee got to see a last peek at the woman who would be leaving them soon. This was not to remind them of who they were losing, rather to show them what a gift she had been to them for the short time she was here. I wondered if Jenny during her rally was the same as Jenny before her cancer.

 When I looked up to the bed in the living room again, my mom was gone.

 In her place was Jenny Rumen. A mother. A daughter. A widow. A young woman who had once had hopes and dreams for her future.

 Not Jenny Fischer, who was long gone. I had had my time with her, as painfully short as it had been. Life wasn’t fair. It would have been more unfair for me to treat this time as a chance to relive my own mother’s death.

 And with that, I felt something shift inside myself.

 “How long?” I asked Jack, not looking at him.

  “She will most likely be gone by the end of the weekend,” he said bluntly.

 I nodded. Less than two days.

 I was willing to stay there as long as I needed to. As long as this family needed me.

Published in the March 5, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 24 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 After talking with Jack, I went back in to the living room.

 Jenny watched me come closer, getting more and more restless as I did. Greta kept rubbing Jenny’s arms helplessly. When I got close enough, Jenny was pushing Greta away to reach for me.

 I looked to Greta for permission to do anything at all. When I finally saw her face, still refusing to look at me, her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet. She got up quickly and left the room, leaving her chair vacant. In her wake, I felt the waves of pain she was trying desperately to hold in, not understanding what it was like to lose a child.

 When I was finally close enough, Jenny took both of my hands, sighing with relief.

 “I’m so happy you came, Ray,” she said, her speech slurred, her voice quiet. In the burrows above her cheekbones, her eyes struggled to focus on me.

 “Me too,” I said, taking a seat.

 “What took you so long?”

 I wish I had known Ray when she had. What could I say?

 “I was out making deliveries,” I said in a pinch. The only thing I knew about the man was that he was a volunteer at The Lunch Bunch like me.

 Jenny nodded, just barely able to move her head. “Always out making deliveries.”

 “Lots of people need to eat.”

 “Just like we do.”

 “Yeah, just like you.”

 The amount of respect and love in Jenny’s sunken eyes floored me. Ray had been my own father and I had never looked at him like this.

 “Ray. I can never thank you enough,” she said, her voice so quiet. Her breath rattled around the words. I knew that rattle and what came with it.

 “It was nothing.”

 “No,” she conceded, taking a thick-sounding breath. “It was everything.”

 Those words sat in the dusty, stuffy air. The house was hot, probably from the oxygen concentrator that was pumping air in to her nostrils. Not to keep her alive, just comfortable. There was nothing that would keep her here now.

 I closed my eyes and shook my head, still trying to find the words to say. How could I be someone I didn’t know for her? I was willing to be anything for her, in that moment. Whoever she needed. I would perform necromancy, raise the dead, to bring her peace before she left.

 And then the words came to me.

 “No, Jenny, I can never thank you enough,” I told her, looking right into her eyes as I said it. “You were my family when I had none. When I was without my own father or son or wife, you, Peter, and Greta were everything to me. There is no amount of gratitude too great for what you have given me. I only hope I was as good to you and to others as you deserve.”

 I felt a tear fall down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away.

 Jenny took a breath in, which seemed less labored than the previous ones. The medication was starting to work.

 “That’s why you did it, isn’t it?” she rasped.

 “Did what?”

 “Started The Lunch Bunch?”

 “What was that?”

 “That’s why you started The Lunch Bunch, right? To be good to others.”

 Jack had said during his talk with me about Jenny that confusion at this point was expected if she was even conscious at all.

 “Yeah, that’s why I volunteer,” I answered, redirecting her. “To help people.”

 “But at that cook out, Sam said that you founded The Lunch Bunch.”

 I blinked. What in the world was she saying?

  “Cook out?”

 “Yeah. The one where I met Gustav and Sam and Kevin, your buddies. You got mad that Sam told me, remember? You were going to throw your tongs at him.”

 Sam. She knew Sam. I knew she had known Gustav after what she had said on Thanksgiving, but not Sam.

 And Ray… She knew that Ray, my father Ray, who lived in a rambler in the roughest part of town, founded The Lunch Bunch?

 “I’m glad he told me, though,” Jenny continued.

 My mind racing again, my mouth dry, I asked, “Why is that?”

 “Because we never would have met if you hadn’t. And I probably would have been dead years ago.”

 I felt my eyes go wide.

 “You saved me, Ray. At a time where I was most often so close to ending things, wondering how I would ever go on, you kept me going. You reminded me that I have my family, and that in a world full of war and loss, there are still good people.”

 Suddenly, her hands grasped mine hard, her nails digging in to my skin. I was shocked at her strength in her condition.

 She pulled me close to her, her hot breath on my face.

 “Don’t give up. Keep saving people. And don’t lose hope for Charlie.”

 My mouth fell open, the tears flowing around the corners of my lips and down off of my chin into my lap.

 Jenny settled back in to her bed, her fingers slipping out of mine. She looked at me for another moment and then closed her eyes.

 I heard a sniff behind me. When I turned, I saw the three in the hallway. Greta, her hand to her mouth, shaking in silent sobs. Peter holding her, staring blankly at both of us. Jack, who had his hand on Peter’s shoulder as he stared at me, the only strong one amongst all of us.

 Jenny died less than 12 hours later, on Saturday evening, at 4:06 p.m.

 

Published in the March 12, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 25 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

Jenny’s funeral was quiet. It was scheduled for the following Wednesday. I tried to make my presence minimal, hovering near the back of the chapel as Renee tearfully spoke about her sister. Jenny liked cooking, music, and being at home, and Peter was her biggest joy in the world. I couldn’t see his face during the service, but Peter sat up straight as a rod and still the whole time. As if he could hold himself together, the less he moved. She had been cremated so there was no body to view. Her small gravestone with a spot for her urn in front of it was already gathering snow. A small vase of red roses, the same color as the lipstick and headscarf Jenny had worn during her rally, was mounted to the side of the stone. Must’ve been her favorite color.

 I was able to work my route around the ceremony. Gustav evidently knew about my relationship with the Rumens because he offered for me to take the day off without my having to ask. He was evidently also okay with me getting so involved with this family because he didn’t threaten to report me to my parole officer.

 Then again, why would he have a problem with it? My father, who had apparently founded The Lunch Bunch, was like a father to Jenny.

 That was something I had let stew. I was prone to spiraling thoughts and this was the perfect catalyst. The man who was a stranger to me had become even stranger to me. Finding out your father had a second family was surprisingly common in my circle of affluent friends, so I was familiar with the concept and how it felt.

 Now I was one of them, in a way. Ray had given up on me and found a new outlet for whatever fathering instincts he had had.

 Or had he? I thought to myself in the upswing of the cycle of anger-hate-questioning-doubting-self blame thoughts I was experiencing.

 Jenny told me on her death bed – told Ray, rather – to not give up on me.

 She knew I existed. She knew enough about the dynamic of our relationship to beg him not to give up on me. That means he talked about me a fair bit to her. Had he really given up on me? I knew that I had certainly given up on him.

 Again, the eternal ache of wanting to remember his voice from our last phone call hurt my chest. Maybe this really was all my fault. Maybe that had been his last chance trying to get through to me and I had blown it. Maybe I should have tried reaching out all those years ago, even before the phone call.

 But then, I argued with myself, I wasn’t the one who terminated our relationship. I wasn’t the one who pawned his son off on his father. I wasn’t the one who let his connection with his son dissolve over the years because he couldn’t see any perspectives besides his own. I wasn’t the one who threw my son out on the night of his high school graduation because I was sick of his attitude.

 And so, the anger portion of the cycle would roll back around. I spent a lot of time in the home gym I had built. It was becoming a good, legal outlet for my emotions, though it was frustrating in its own way. Cardio was rough because of the COVID cough I could never kick. Most of the time I would end a sprint in a coughing fit, unable to breathe for a short period. I thought about dialing it back because, despite all of the weight training and muscle-building I was trying to do, I was losing weight. Maybe I was running too hard. That was the difficult part of me getting in to anything recreational or otherwise. I had a tendency to get addicted and put too much in to it, physically and mentally.

 And that was precisely why I had let the little Merry-Go-Round in my head whirl me enough until I was sitting the back of my chauffeured car, headed to the office of the only person that knew anything about my father. Either he could set me straight or vindicate the hatred I had cultivated over the years.

 It was that same Wednesday after the funeral and my route. I jumped out of the delivery truck as Kevin pulled up to my front steps. I didn’t even make it inside before I had my phone in my hand, calling my driver to pick me up again.

 I knew Sam would still be working, even though it was past the normal business hours for his firm. He had several big clients, myself included, that kept him unmarried and chained to his desk.

 When we arrived, I stepped in to the busy sidewalk. Streetlights lit the night as people bundled up against the cold hurried along. Taxis sped past on the busy city street behind me, blowing exhaust into the flurries of snow falling. I approached the marble building and hit the buzzer with a gloved finger. A security man buzzed me in. I was on Sam’s list of preferred clients, so I would’ve been permitted to walk in at midnight, if I wanted. In my past life, I did a few times, though those memories were dim.

 I took the shiny elevator up to the top floor, where my asset manager’s office was nestled behind a dark, vacant lobby. His assistant must’ve already gone home for the night.

 I didn’t even get to knock on the door when Sam opened it. From the look on his face, resignation instead of surprise, he was expecting me. He knew why I was there.

Published in the March 19, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 26 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 The office was dark. The skyline lit the windows and wall behind Sam’s huge desk. The papers there were on the desk top were neatly separated into piles, spilling shadows across the shiny mahogany. The only light on was a green banker’s lamp sat next to a single whiskey glass. I could tell it was ice water in the glass, though. Sam had never been a drinker since I’d started working with him. I’m glad one of us had been sober when we were handling Grandfather’s fortune.

   He was sat in his high-backed office chair made of maroon leather. I was in a plush maroon leather armchair across from him. He had offered me a seat and some water, but I had just walked in and sat down. Now that I was there, all of the questions I had had come screeching to a halt, running into each other like a twenty-car pile-up on the freeway. Where did I even begin?

 Sam sensed how I was feeling, as usual.

 “How was the funeral?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him.

 “Fine,” I said, not moving.

 “Was she buried or cremated?”

 “Cremated. She has a plot at their family’s cemetery.”

 Sam nodded. I suspected he knew all of this and was just trying to warm me up. Don’t ask me why I would think he knew all of this, but he seemed to know everything in those days.

 That’s when my first question struck me.

 “You knew.”

 It came out more of an accusation than a question, but it felt like both in my head.

 “Knew what?”

 “Ray founded The Lunch Bunch,” he said. “Jenny said so. She said you told her.”

 Again, Sam nodded.

 “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, an edge entering my voice.

 “You weren’t ready to know.”

 “I wasn’t ready?”

 “You were freshly out of prison, still struggling to stay sober, and overly full of yourself.”

 That struck me.

 “I was clean when I got out,” I stated, crossing my arms.

 “I heard rumors that you were trying to get in touch with old acquaintances in prison, shortly before you got out.”

 My eyebrows furrowed in anger. So, he knew that, too. Of course he did.

 “I never scored.”

 “I made sure of that. It was the only way to get your parole granted.”

 My stomach twisted. It felt like betrayal.

 “You what?”

 “The judge was only willing to grant you parole if there was a way to be sure that you would stay clean.”

 “How did you ‘make sure,’ though?”

 “I called your old friends, said some choice words. Made them understand that they would never see the sunlight uncut by prison bars again if they ever so much as spoke to you again.”

 My eyes widened.

 So that’s why all my old friends had stopped talking to me. It wasn’t because of my behavior at my party. When you threatened one of them, you became untouchable. Everyone had good lawyers, but no one wanted to use them.

 “You decided to ruin my life,” I said, the old Charlie peeking out of the shadows.

 “You did that on your own.”

 All of the counseling that had been drilled in to my head during my tax-payer-funded time-out told me he was right. I had made the decisions to be around the people I was around, to pick up the pipes and straws and bottles, and to keep doing it until I pushed too far. Though I had been forced to be sober because they wouldn’t allow me to use behind bars, I finally had to cave in and make the decision to commit by myself, even if the only driving force was to keep myself out of prison. It didn’t mean the urges never left me. To this day, I still crave the smooth burn of a whiskey on the rocks on my tongue, or the feeling of a good high, where the weight of the world leaves you so not even gravity holds you. The world gets so heavy. It’s one of the hardest things about being sober.

 I didn’t dispute his claim, because with the new self-awareness that had been evolving inside of me, I knew he was right. I had more questions, too.

 “How did you get the judge to let me volunteer for my own father’s organization?” I asked next.

 Sam took a drink from his water glass.

 “Judge Carmen thought it was brilliant, to be honest. He knew your dad and had seen the good that the organization had done for other past offenders. Including Ray.” He turned his eyes back to me.

 “Ray?”

 Sam nodded.

 “What did he do?”

 In a twist I didn’t expect, Sam smiled. Fondly.

 “What didn’t Ray do?”

 Yes, tell me Sam, I thought to myself. I felt like I was running towards the light, the truth.

 “Charlie, if only you knew what your father was like in his younger years. Actually, you probably do, because you two are reflections in a mirror.” 

 “How so?”

 “Before he became the Ray that was spending his billions feeding people out of the back of his van, he and I and our band of brats were out terrorizing the town.”

Published in the March 26, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 27 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 I felt frozen in my place in that arm chair with my arms across my chest.

 Sam folded his hands in front of him, looking at me intensely.

 “I don’t know how much you remember about your dad, Charlie,” he said. “But the man that raised you was not the man I grew up with.”

 “He didn’t raise me,” I retorted.

 Sam ignored that. “When your dad was younger, he was the apple of your grandfather’s eye. He knew it, too. Whatever Ray wanted, Ray got. When we were kids, it was toys and games, tickets to games and movies, endless junk food. When we got older, it was cars, gadgets, properties, even women.”

 I blinked. Boy, did that sound familiar to me. After being pretty well adopted, sometimes all I had to do was think of something and it would appear in my bedroom. Grandfather never got me women, though. I threw enough money around that it was hard not to hit one, no matter where I went.

 “He had already had billions to his name by the time he was eighteen. It was his own money, too. A fund had been started the day he was born and invested lovingly by asset managers and your own grandfather. As insufferable as the man was, he had a gift for knowing the market.”

 I tensed as Sam called Grandfather insufferable. The impulse to defend him was strong but, after coming as far as I had, I realized Sam was right. Grandfather was the man that raised me, but there was a reason I was the way I was and in trouble because of it.

 “So as soon as he had the money to himself, it became him. Ray wanted for nothing and held none of the responsibility that came with all of that money and, in turn, power.”

 Again, this was a story I had heard before, had lived before.

 “I cannot even begin to tell you how much we got away with without consequence, Charlie. We gave you a run for your money, so to speak. We were hellions.”

 I looked Sam up and down at this. A man who never drank alcohol, basically lived in his office on the top floor in one of the nicest buildings in the city, and had no vices that I could name. I found it hard to believe, but I’d never known Sam to be an outright liar (except by omission, obviously).

 “So, what happened?” I piped in. “You said he’d changed.”

 “Jenny Klein happened.”

 A small thrill went through me. I hadn’t heard my mother’s maiden name in years.

 “They met at a rock concert we were at. One minute, we were listening to the music, him eyeing some girl that was standing near us. The next minute, I turned around and he was gone. I’d call it love at first sight, but it seemed cheaper than that at the time. When I saw him the day after the concert, I thought he’d never see this chick again. I ate my words when she showed up at our next party. After that, I rarely saw him again without her nearby.”

 “Why would that change him?” Other than Jenny Rumen, I had never met a woman at that point that changed me. My feelings for Jenny weren’t romantic, either. Usually “romantic” meant “disposable” for me.

 “Let’s just say that Jenny wasn’t one of us. The part of town you grew up in was where she was from.”

 I nodded. That I could understand. I had been with one or two girls who didn’t have money like I did, but not many. In my circle, it was frowned upon by parents from a social point of view, and laughed at by the guys from a degrading point of view.

 “But that didn’t matter to Ray. To this day, I still don’t know what she unlocked in him, but he was never fully the same after that.”

 “So, was she some do-gooder or something?” Maybe he had had a “see the light” moment, dating a good girl that had changed him.

 Sam shook his head. “No. In fact, I’d argue she was a bad influence on him. At least in the beginning.”

 “How so?”

 “Ray was deep in drugs and alcohol at that time in his life. So was she. They never fought or were toxic to each other at that point, but they also never criticized each other’s choices. In fact, any bad decisions they made seemed to be mutually agreed upon. That was almost worse.”

 I had vague recollections of life before my mom died. She and dad had never said a bad word to each other. I didn’t remember ever feeling tense around them like I had when I went to other kid’s houses, where their parents fought. No, life had only gotten bad after she had died, and even then, it was mostly because dad was never around. He didn’t drink or use drugs, just smoked like a chimney.

 “What happened from there?” I asked, curious about how my parents went from these dope fiend trouble makers, to a loving mother and a billionaire philanthropist.

 Sam sighed. “Well, I’ve told you that they did bad stuff, more than I can ever tell you.”

 I waited for him to continue, gesturing at him to do so.
“And when you do all of that kind of stuff, it takes something really big to change you.”

 Oh. I had a feeling I knew where this was going.

 “Let me guess. They had me?” I asked sarcastically. “I changed their lives? I was the miracle that fixed them?”

 “Oh no. First, Ray had to nearly get your mom killed.”

Published in the April 2, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 28 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 “What?” I exclaimed, sitting up in the chair.

 Sam nodded, continuing. “In the summer of 1980, your dad got in a huge fight with your grandfather.”

 “Why?”

 “Because he wanted to marry Jenny. Your grandfather was deeply opposed to it, convinced that being with Jenny was part of some rebellious phase your dad was going through. He thought her beneath your dad and even threatened to disown your dad if he went through with marrying her.”

 Again, this seemed like something Grandfather would do. He never got on to me about the volume of women I had dated because I had never gotten serious with anyone. I knew that, if I had chosen to settle down, he would have been more scrutinizing.

 “I’d never seen Ray madder than he was that night. He left his father’s house and came straight to my house, where Jenny was hanging out with my girlfriend. No matter what I or anyone said, he wouldn’t calm down. I thought maybe he had taken something really strong because that was completely unlike Ray.”

 “Then what?”

 “Jenny decided to get him out and see if she could get him to calm down, but he insisted on driving.” Sam’s face fell. “I never should have allowed that.”

 Sam sat in the memory for a moment, his eyes becoming distant. Down on the street below, someone laid on their car horn, making him jump.

 “Did he crash the car?” I asked.

 “Worse. He totaled the car, but mostly on the passenger’s side, hitting a guard rail, almost to the point where there was no passenger side left.”

 You hear stories like that on the news and think of how horrible it is when you do. Horror went through me as I realized he was talking about my own parents.

 “Mom survived, though,” I noted, trying to remind both of us of the end of this particular story.

 “She was extremely lucky,” Sam said, his voice quiet and serious. “I didn’t get to see her before she was in the hospital, but even after being treated and bandaged, I had never seen someone in that bad of shape. There were very few parts of her that weren’t wrapped, with blood seeping through the bandages. She needed several surgeries, and she was in a coma with a breathing machine. They weren’t sure she was going to make it.”

 Sam was clearly distraught at the memory.

 “Where was Ray?” I asked.

 “He went to jail. Was arrested immediately on scene. I was so mad at him at the time, thinking that it served him right. Jenny was my friend, too.”

 A part of me softened towards Sam. Before then, I had not really thought of him as a close family friend. He was just the controller of the purse strings, making my investments and protecting my money (sometimes even from myself). In a way, he was the only family I had left. I was just realizing it.

 “Did he go to prison?”

 Sam shook his head.

 “No, Charlie, he did not. He was let out pretty fast on bail and, after a few court dates, was sentenced to community service. Delivering food to the elderly.”

 “With The Lunch Bunch?” I asked, confused.

 “No. That comes later,” Sam said with a small smile. “But first, he lived in that hospital with Jenny. The nurses were strict on visiting hours, but when he wasn’t out delivering food, he was in a chair beside her bed, watching her for any new movement, any sign that she was still in there. He only went home to sleep and shower.”

 “How long did it take for her to wake up?”

 “Months. Finally, one day, he had fallen asleep with his head on her bed. He awoke to her fingers touching his hair. When he looked up at her, her eyes were open and she was watching him. That was the first time Ray had cried in years.”

 I tried to place myself in my father’s position. Waiting for someone he loved, whom he had hurt, to come back from the dead… And then seeing them do so. There were no words to describe how that must have felt.

 “Then, he was there at her side through every physical therapy appointment he could go to. He was walking up and down the hallways of the hospital with her, helping her eat, giving her showers. When Ray was on duty, those nurses never had to lift a finger.” Sam chuckled at the thought.

 “Did she make a full recovery?” I tried to remember if my mother had had any issues that I could remember like a bad leg or brain injury, but I couldn’t. When you’re young, you don’t always know all of your parents’ deficiencies. To me, she was just mom.

 “Pretty dang close. She would get headaches regularly and couldn’t tolerate standing for too long. She didn’t remember the accident, either, but that was probably for the best. Ray, on the other hand, never forgot.”

 When I would get really wasted, there were many times I didn’t remember, including the night that I ruined my life. The fact that Ray never forgot the accident told me that he wasn’t really messed up on something. He must have been furious at Grandfather.

 “So, she recovered. Then, I’m guessing they got married?” I questioned.

 “The day after she graduated from physical therapy and was cleared by her doctor. They went to the courthouse. I was one of Ray’s witnesses,” Sam said, a big smile on his face.

 “And Grandfather?”

 “He was true to his word. He cut Ray off from all money that wasn’t in Ray’s name, had the locks changed during the ceremony, and didn’t speak to him again for a long time.”

 “When was the next time?” I asked.

 “When you were eleven years old.”

Published in the April 9, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 29 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

The pieces were all starting to come together.

 I thought Ray had hated Grandfather. Before I was swept up, he had never talked about Grandfather. After Grandfather came back in to my life, that completely changed. The years passed and we progressed from Ray warning me to be careful about what I was getting in to, to Ray telling me I was getting in too deep, to Ray and I yelling at each other about everything, including Grandfather.

 But never once did Ray tell me that he was speaking from a place of experience. I guess I should have inferred that, as Grandfather had raised him. Surely, he would have known what it was like to grow up rich and spoiled. But from the way Grandfather had talked, my dad never lived the life I was living. He made it sound like Ray had been different than me.

 He hadn’t been, though. He had lived the way I did.

 His choices had been different, though. He gave it all up for something better.

 My mom.

 “Were they sober by that point?” I asked Sam.

 “Yes. They never touched anything again, not even a cocktail at dinner. An experience like the one they had been through changed their perspective on everything.”

 Yes. It did.

 Ray didn’t hate Grandfather. He hated everything that he had become, everything that had ruined his life and almost killed the love of his life. Maybe Ray had even tried to convey such information to Grandfather, the provider of all of the everything Ray had come to resent.

 But knowing Grandfather, how stubborn he was, how insistent he was that he was never wrong, I had a feeling that even if Ray had shouted his point until he was blue in the face, Grandfather would never have backed down.

 Just like I hadn’t.

 Ray never had a chance with me. I never gave him one.

 My heart sank.

 “Charlie?”

 I looked up at Sam. I wasn’t sure how long I had spent sitting silently in my loud thoughts, but it was long enough that he had a worried look on his face.

 “What about The Lunch Bunch?” I asked, reaching for another line of questioning. I wasn’t ready to talk about how any of this related to myself.

 “That came years later, after you were born, actually. Your parents had bought a modest home in your mother’s old neighborhood. They still had your father’s fortune, but…”

 Sam cut himself off.

 My ears perked up.

 “But?” I prompted. He was hiding something again.

 Sam pursed his lips, sizing me up. Trying to figure out if I was ready for another truth.

 “Sam.”
“He was done with it.”

 “Done with it?”

 “I was his financial advisor at the time. Whenever we would talk about his money, he would speak about it in a certain tone.”

 “How so?”

 “Like…” Sam seemed to struggle for the words. “Like it was a weight.”

 I cocked an eyebrow.

 “He wasn’t interested in investments anymore. He wasn’t spending much, just enough to keep you and your mother cared for. The only major purchases he made were for the house and for two used vehicles. He wasn’t building a fortune anymore and he wasn’t interested in doing so.”

 “Why?”

 “As I said, he was done with it. But he had no idea what to do with it. He didn’t want to keep all of it. I think that perhaps he felt like, if he had it, it would tempt him to go back to his old ways.”

 It definitely could have. As I’ve previously mentioned, other than a desire to stay out of prison, not much could hold me back if I decided to revert to my old ways. Sam would have been disappointed, but there was nothing in our contract dictating that he could restrict how I used my money. And when you have endless means at your disposal, it makes reverting too easy.

  “After he had finished his community service, it came to him that he could just continue on his own. So instead of companies and properties, Ray had me invest in his new enterprise, The Lunch Bunch. He worked with local social workers, food wholesalers, chefs, nutritionists, and even law enforcement to bring it all together. It took a few years to get it off the ground, but once it got going, it really gained momentum.”

 “How old was I?” I couldn’t help asking. After all, I remembered the vacancy he left in my life from such a young age.

 “It got off the ground when you were five. Your mom helped out. You did, too.”

 Sam rolled his chair back a little to open his desk drawer. He pulled out a photograph, took a look at it with a smile, then slid it across the mahogany desk top towards me.

 Slowly, I got my hand to move and grab it. In the light of the banker’s lamp, I stared blankly at the old picture.

 Three people were standing next to a Lunch Bunch truck, a much older model than the one I spent the last almost year riding in.

 Ray looked exactly as I remembered him. Long black mullet, blue eyes, and five o’clock shadow, in the jean jacket he practically lived in, with a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket.

 My mother… I could have gazed at her forever. Pale skin, flowing black hair, and green eyes. Radiantly beautiful and healthy, with a huge laughing grin on her face.

 And with that ancient ache in my chest, I turned my eyes to the little boy she held in her arms.

 Black hair, blue eyes. A huge-looking, sideways baseball cap on my tiny head. And a very familiar-looking jacket in kid’s size.

 I guess doing community service wasn’t the first time I wore a Lunch Bunch jacket.

 

Published in the April 16, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 30 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 I stared at the little family in the photo.

 My family.

 Then it started to become blurry.

 “Charlie,” Sam said as my hand began to shake.

 My eyes burned, and hot tears ran down my cheeks. I felt that empty pit in my chest start to burn, too.

 “Why?” I questioned, my voice breaking.

 “Why what?” Sam asked.

 “Why did they leave me?”

 I tore my gaze away from the photo to look up at Sam. His eyebrows were pulled together in an expression I had never seen on him before. His own eyes had started to look shiny in the lamp light. He didn’t speak.

 Again, I looked at the picture. The only evidence I had that I had once been part of a family.

 “I was just a kid, Sam. Why did they leave me? Why?”

 In a flashback similar to the ones back in the days I used, I was standing beside a bed. The mid-afternoon sun slanted in through the open windows across bleached linens. The only sounds in the room were the birds and the rustling of the wind outside. That same gentle breeze blew through gauzy curtains.

 Those curtains were the only thing in the room that moved.

 My hand was resting on a gray bed rail, which I was just tall enough to see over. I was standing there in my red high-top sneakers and sideways cap, the one dad bought me at a baseball game, staring at the bed.

 Holding my breath. Waiting for her to take another one.

 She never did.

 Her skin was like yellowed ivory against the white sheets, her ashen lips dry and cracked from days without water. Her eyes were closed, her bald head faced away from me. The expression she wore, from what I could see at my angle, was not peaceful. Her body and limbs were contorted from the restlessness she had suffered from before going still.

 When I realized she wasn’t going to breathe again, I turned to my dad, unsure of what to do next. Dad stood in the doorway, gripping the frame with his strong hand as he faced away from me.

 Before I could ask anything, he walked out of the room.

 And there I remained. A seven-year-old boy, standing alone in the living room with my dead mother.

 Many years later, sitting in that office in the city with Sam, I realized that was the emptiness that filled me. Consumed me. It had begun in that moment.

 I looked to Sam, much in the way I had looked to Ray.

 Sam didn’t turn away, though. Even as he silently cried, he didn’t hide from me.

 “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”

 I closed my eyes and took a breath, another stream of tears rolling down my face and on to my jacket.

 “I loved Ray like a brother, and I will never pretend to understand the gravity of the loss he endured. But I will also never make excuses for why he chose to grieve in the way that he did.” Sam paused. “Much in the way I have done with you all of these years.”

 My eyes opened. Sam’s expression had turned somewhat hard again. I understood the implications behind it.

 Again, I saw Ray in the mirror.

 “And I know people have told you that Ray loved you, no matter how he acted. No one knows that more that than I do,” Sam continued. “But much like everything else you have done in your life thus far, it is your choice whether or not you forgive him. No one else’s.”

 I blinked. How profound.

 Since my father’s death, I thought my only option was to give him clemency. That’s how everyone who learned even a little of the dynamic between me and Ray had made me feel. I thought mercy was an obligation. But it wasn’t.

 The gravity of that struck me.

 In that empty place in my chest, I expected to feel the ghosts to begin to stir as they did whenever I thought too hard about my past.

 But they weren’t there. The space was vacant. Hollow.

 Hallowed.

 Sam’s apology had meant everything. It was the first time someone had acknowledged them, the ghosts, where they came from.

 When you shine a light on a ghost, it disappears.

 It felt like daybreak spreading across the shadows, filling in the dark crevices and cracks and scaring away the spirits. It was in that light that was that I decided to forgive Ray. And myself.

 

Published in the April 23, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---

Chapter 31 – Charlie, summer of 2025

Disclaimer: All characters and situations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or situations, living, dead, past, present, or future, are purely coincidental.

 

Published in the April 30, 2026 Hardin County Independent

---