Morning

A Short Story by Eric McQuiston

I

Jeff had been walking for hours, though he couldn't remember where he'd started.

Rain followed him down the empty street, running from his hair and down the back of his neck. His jacket had stopped keeping him dry long ago. Water squished inside his shoes with every step.

He was twenty-eight years old and owned little that wasn't on him or stuffed into the backpack hanging from his shoulder.

There had been more once. An apartment. A car. Jobs, plenty of them. He had washed dishes, waited tables, tended bar, unloaded trucks, laid flooring, worked construction. There was always something wrong with each one. The manager. The money. The hours. Somebody else.

Sometimes he simply stopped showing up.

There had been women, too. Friends. People who stopped calling after Jeff stopped answering.

His father had tried longer than most.

Sarah had tried longest of all.

The rain came harder.

At the next intersection stood a bus shelter, three walls of scratched glass beneath a metal roof. Jeff stepped inside and dropped his backpack on the bench. The sudden absence of rain felt strange.

Across the street, a traffic light changed from red to green for no one.

His hands were shaking. He pressed them between his knees.

He knew why. He also knew what would make them stop—for a while, the way it always did, and that was the part he always let himself forget until it was over.

Jeff sat on the metal bench and leaned his head against the glass. He was tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixed.

His father would be getting ready for work in a few hours. Even in his sixties, Dad still woke before the alarm; decades as an engineer had made punctuality something biological. Sarah might already be awake. Nurses kept strange hours.

Jeff pulled out his phone. Nine percent. There were messages he hadn't opened. He didn't need to open them to know who some were from.

He put the phone away.

There had been a time when his father bragged about him. My son. That was before the jobs, before the borrowing, before promises became apologies and apologies became promises and everyone stopped believing either one.

He wondered what his father called him now.

Probably still his son.

That made it worse.

A bus appeared several blocks away, headlights blurred by rain. It slowed, then stopped in front of him. The doors folded open. The driver looked over.

Jeff didn't move.

After a few seconds, the doors closed. The bus pulled away, its red lights shrinking into the rain until they were gone.

Jeff curled onto the bench and pulled his jacket tighter. Rain drummed against the metal roof. He closed his eyes.

Somewhere between waking and sleep, the sound changed. Rain against metal became wind through leaves.

And Jeff was eleven years old again.

II

"Don't go too far."

"I won't."

Jeffery picked up two branches and tucked them under his arm. His father looked up from the fire ring.

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Sarah laughed. She was thirteen and had recently decided that being two years older made her an authority on everything.

"What?" Jeffery said.

"Nothing."

"Then shut up."

"Jeffery." Dad didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Sorry."

Sarah smiled. Jeffery stuck his tongue out at her when Dad looked away.

"Firewood," Dad said.

"I'm going."

The woods were beautiful that afternoon, sunlight breaking through the canopy in long shafts, the ground smelling of pine needles and damp earth. Jeffery liked being in the woods. His father knew the names of things: trees, birds, rocks. He could read a map and use a compass and build a fire that didn't smoke. He could look at a stream and somehow know where it went. Dad always seemed to know where he was.

Jeffery intended to be like that someday. Except for the engineer part. That sounded boring.

He found another branch. There wasn't much deadfall near camp, so he went farther. For a while he could hear Sarah's voice behind him. Then he couldn't hear her at all.

He found a fallen limb wedged between two trees, dry and nearly as thick as his wrist, and worked it back and forth until it snapped. Perfect. Dad would like this one.

He gathered the wood and turned toward camp.

Five minutes later, he stopped. Camp should have been there. He looked behind him.

Maybe he'd gone around the wrong side of the ridge and gotten turned around. A few minutes later he found a creek.

He didn't remember crossing a creek.

Something cold moved through his stomach. He put down the firewood.

"Okay." Hearing his own voice helped.

He retraced his steps, or tried to. There was the fallen log—no, not the same one. He walked faster. He climbed a slope, certain he'd see camp from the top.

Nothing.

"Sarah!" The woods swallowed her name. "Dad!"

A bird called somewhere above him. That was all.

For the next hour Jeffery solved the problem again and again. Camp was behind the ridge.

Across the creek. Downhill. West, except he wasn't sure anymore where west was.

The sun sank lower. Jeffery began to run. Branches slapped his arms, briars caught his jeans.

He tripped over a root and scraped both palms. He got up.

"Dad!"

Nothing.

"DAD!" His voice cracked. He ran again, then stopped, crying, and wiped his face angrily.

"I'm not lost." The words sounded foolish as soon as he heard them.

The woods had changed. The bright shafts of afternoon were gone; shadows filled the spaces between the trees. For the first time, Jeffery understood that he had no idea where he was.

"I'm lost," he whispered.

Then he remembered. His father had taught him and Sarah what to do if they ever became separated in the woods. Jeffery hadn't paid much attention at the time—he'd been poking a rotten stump with a stick, but he remembered the words.

If you get lost, stop. Stay where you are, Jeffery. I'll find you.

Every part of him wanted to move. What if camp was just beyond those trees? What if Dad was over the next ridge, five minutes away?

Stay where you are.

Jeffery sat down.

Darkness came quickly, and at night the woods became something else. A branch snapped beyond the trees. He lifted his head.

"Hello?"

Nothing. Leaves moved. Something ran through the underbrush. During the day he could look toward a sound and see what made it. At night there was only the sound.

He pulled his knees to his chest. Another branch cracked, closer. He imagined bears, coyotes, strangers, things he couldn't name.

Dad is looking for me.

The darkness didn't change.

Dad is looking for me.

He found a place beneath a large tree where the ground was mostly dry, piled leaves around himself the way Dad had once shown him, and waited. Sometimes he called. Mostly he listened.

Once, far away, he thought he heard someone shout. He jumped to his feet.

"DAD!"

Nothing. He wanted to run toward the sound. He took three steps, then stopped.

Stay where you are.

He went back to the tree.

Hours passed. He slept and woke cold. For the first time he wondered if his father could find him. He pushed the thought away.

Dad is looking for me.

He repeated it until he fell asleep.

When he opened his eyes, something was different. He could see his hand—only the outline at first, then the tree trunk beside him, the ground, trees farther away. Shapes that had frightened him during the night became branches, rocks, fallen logs.

Jeffery stood.

Morning.

"Jeffery!"

He froze. The voice was faint. Then again, closer.

"JEFFERY!"

"DAD!" Jeffery screamed until his throat hurt. "DAD! I'M HERE!"

Something crashed through the woods.

"JEFFERY!"

"I'm here!"

His father appeared between the trees. Jeffery ran, and so did his father. Jeffery had never seen him run like that. He hit him hard enough that they nearly fell, and his father wrapped both arms around him.

"I'm sorry," Jeffery said. "I got lost and—"

"I've got you."

Jeffery buried his face in his father's jacket. He was crying. So was his father.

After a while Dad leaned back, his hands on Jeffery's shoulders.

"You okay?"

A nod.

"Cold?"

Another nod.

"Hungry?"

Jeffery nodded again, and Dad smiled.

"Your sister has been driving everybody crazy."

Jeffery laughed through his tears. His father put an arm around his shoulders.

"Come on. Let's go home."

Jeffery walked beside him. He didn't ask which way.

III

A car passed, tires hissing on wet pavement, and Jeff opened his eyes.

For several seconds he stared through the scratched glass at the street. The woods were gone. His neck hurt. His clothes were still damp. His mouth tasted terrible.

Across the street, someone was unlocking a coffee shop. A delivery truck stopped at the corner. The rain had ended, and along the eastern horizon, where the clouds had thinned, a break had opened. Light came through it.

His backpack was still beside him. His hands were still shaking.

Jeff pulled out his phone. Four percent. He opened his contacts.

Dad.

His thumb hovered over the name.

He couldn't. Not yet.

He scrolled to Sarah and pressed it.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Hello?"

Jeff couldn't speak.

"Hello?"

"Sarah."

Silence. Then her voice changed. "Jeffery?"

No one had called him that in a long time. Jeff bent forward and covered his eyes.

"Jeffery, is that you?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

He tried to answer. "No." The word came out small.

"Where are you?"

He looked through the glass, found the street signs, and told her.

"Are you safe?"

"I think so."

"Are you inside?"

"Bus stop."

"Okay." He heard movement on her end.

"Sarah?"

"I'm here."

He swallowed. "I need help."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"We'll talk later." He heard keys, a door. Then: "Stay there. I'll come get you."

Jeff went still. For a moment he could smell damp earth and pine needles.

Stay where you are, Jeffery. I'll find you.

He wiped his face. "Okay."

"I'm leaving now. Keep your phone on."

"I will."

"And Jeffery?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you called."

The line went quiet. Jeff lowered the phone.

Across the street, the coffee shop lights came on. Cars moved through the intersection. People appeared on the sidewalks. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.

Jeff leaned back against the glass. He didn't know what he would say when Sarah arrived. He didn't know what he would say to his father.

For once, he didn't try to figure it out.

He stayed where he was.

Sunlight reached the tops of the buildings. Then the windows. Then the street.

Jeff watched it come.

And waited.