Part 20 (2/2)

The boys breathing was heavy. He was panting. Like he was Brae. Henry let go of his shoulder and sank back onto the ground.

Not here.

Not here.

Not here.

How many places could be unsafe? For Henry it was the mountain. For this kid it was here. New Orleans. Louisiana.

Henry thought something then.

What if the place came with you?

What if no matter where you went, it followed you?

What if the mountain had followed him?

Or worse, what if it was inside him?

chapter 47.

ZAVION.

”The storm is over,” said the man.

The storm was traveling away from the street-that was true. The violin squeal was slowly fading.

But the memory was getting brighter.

The storm had brought it cras.h.i.+ng in.

Luna had opened the window in his brain and the memory had flooded back to him.

He remembered.

- Mamas hands on his face.

Mamas voice.

Mamas hug.

- A blue ceramic mug.

Mamas mug. Her favorite mug. The one she brought from North Carolina. It had a tan and brown bird on it, built up with clay, so it stuck out from the rest of the mug. It was positioned at the top, at an angle. Its wings were fully opened.

Zavion remembered tracing the outline of the bird when Mama set it down in the morning to have her cup of coffee. He remembered wondering, each time, if the next time the bird would be gone. If it would ever finally fly away.

Zavion remembered that blue mug, and a sad blue thing crept through the open window in his brain.

It crouched in a corner there.

Then it stretched its body out flat.

- Zavion was four.

He had been outside, pulling mint out of the tiny garden Mama kept behind their house. Her family had kept enormous gardens at their house in North Carolina, at the base of Grandmother Mountain, and Mama had carried a garbage bag filled with dirt when she moved. A little bit of North Carolina in New Orleans. Just enough dirt for a tiny garden.

She grew tomatoes, cuc.u.mbers, peas, and mint.

Lots of mint.

That morning she had sent Zavion out to pick some for a big pitcher of iced tea she was making.

Mint, ginger, and tea.

Her specialty.

”My special tea,” she would say. And then she would laugh.

That low, rumbly laugh like a cat purring.

Zavion picked two big handfuls of mint and was running back into the kitchen. He was so excited he had forgotten to take off his garden boots-tall, yellow rubber boots-just inside the front door, which was a rule of Mamas. She liked a clean floor, liked to walk in the house barefoot, and didnt want to step in dirt or mud or worse.

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