Francis Stein always knew he wasn't meant for glory.
He knew it in the way a man knows a stove is hot—because the first time he touched it, it burned. His whole life in Bayou D'Arbonne had been one long, slow lesson in pain avoidance. Don't sass your daddy unless you want a shotgun shell in the dirt beside your foot. Don't flirt with your cousin's best friend unless you want to get jumped behind the Piggly Wiggly. Don't stand too close to the church choir boys or your daddy'll say things with his belt he won't say with his mouth.
So when the letter came, stamped and sealed with Uncle Sam's promise, Francis didn't cry. Didn't protest. Didn't even read the whole damn thing. He just folded it, stuck it in his pocket, and said: "Well, hell."
It was Bedelia who cried. All of twelve years old, full of vinegar and melodrama, she clung to his waist like a mourning widow.
"They'll shoot you dead, Frankie, I know it."
"Not if I duck," he said, tousling her hair.
"That ain't funny!"
"Then why're you smilin'?" he shot back.
Timmy, ten and trying to be tough, handed him a little rock he'd painted green. "This is lucky. I licked it before I painted it, so it's got my DNA in it."
"That's... sweet. And terrifying." Francis pocketed it anyway.
His mama, Barbarita, stood in the doorway with a cigarette in one hand and a rosary in the other like she was covering all her bases. "Don't do nothin' dumb, son. We don't got the money for a funeral."
"Appreciate the confidence, Ma."
"You want confidence? Don't die."
His cousin Michelle sat cross-legged on the porch rail, smoking something that was either a cigarette or a rolled-up page of True Romance magazine. "You better not come back with no foreign disease. I ain't sharin' a bathroom with a syphilitic."
"I'll tell the Nazis to aim low," Francis muttered.
Gorge didn't come outside. He was on the porch earlier, blasting his shotgun at some neighborhood kid who rode by on a bike wearing red. Claimed it was "a commie color." Francis heard the blast from his room while packing and thought: At least he's in good spirits.
Monique came by just as the bus pulled up. Her hair was pinned just right, lipstick red as cherries, and Chi-Chi the demon cat nestled under her arm like a ticking bomb.
"You ain't gonna write, are you?" she asked.
Francis scratched the back of his neck. "Probably not."
"Good. I'd hate to waste the time reading it."
"Thanks for the send-off."
Chi-Chi hissed, then lunged, claws out like he was storming the beaches of Normandy. Francis sidestepped and nearly fell off the curb.
The bus driver didn't wait. He never did.
Francis climbed aboard with the rattle of his single duffel bag and a mouth full of dust. As the tires rolled over gravel, Bedelia chased the bus with Timmy close behind. Michelle just waved her cigarette in slow, sarcastic circles.
And through the dusty rear window, Francis could see the porch.
Could see Gorge sitting with his shotgun across his lap.
Could see his mother crossing herself and lighting a fresh cigarette.
Could see the house he never quite fit into, shrinking behind him like a bad dream being driven away.
"Yes, pa," he muttered to himself, already dreading what kind of hell awaited him on the other side of this ride.
But at least he was finally going somewhere else.
