The Drowned Forest by Kristopher Reisz

to get in the ground today.”
    “Okay, okay. But how do we—”
    “Figure it out.” Stuffing my straw hat on his head, I left. Just turned my back and walked away. That felt good, Holly, I have to admit.
    I jogged the two miles to your house. By the time I knocked on the door, I was panting hard. But when you opened it, I managed enough breath to snap, “Why didn’t you tell me what today was?”
    “I don’t—did your mom drop you off or something?”
    “I was at church and ran.”
    “You ran?”
    “Yes, of course,” I said, stepping into the delicious air conditioning of your living room. “Where’s your pa-paw?”
    “At the studio,” you grumbled. “He always finds something to work on this time of year. He’ll probably put in a hundred hours this week.”
    I sighed and asked again, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
    “Because it’s stupid.”
    “No, it’s not.” I pulled you into a hug. “ You’re stupid for not telling me. But this is not stupid.”
    Burying your face in my neck, you began to sob. “Part of me just can’t ever remember that they’re dead. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and think they’re in the next room. And then I remember, and it’s almost like losing them all over.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “I miss Mom and Dad. I miss Me-maw.”
    “I know, I know. But I’m always here for you, Holly. All you ever have to do is ask. Okay?”
    You sniffled and nodded, then said, “Can’t believe you ran all the way here.”
    “Yeah. Oh, I also yelled at Jonathan.”
    “Really? Awesome.”

Twelve
    The shower turns on. Is it morning already? I lie in my sleeping bag thinking about you, thinking about my promise. Max and Steve talk in the kitchen. I smell black coffee and pick out my name in their conversation. Tyler’s name too.
    “See you tonight, Lee-Lee,” Max says.
    “Bye, guys. Be careful.”
    They walk out. A motor starts and pulls away. Then LeighAnn nudges me. “Hey. Hey, wake up.”
    Pulling down the lip of the sleeping bag, I squint at her. She’s wearing a white blouse and maroon skirt. The airplane tattoo on her forearm shows through the thin material of her blouse, but she pulls on a maroon suit jacket that covers it completely. She looks normal now, except for a pair of bangles on her wrist made from old guitar strings.
    Flipping her hair out of her collar, LeighAnn asks, “You okay? No … ?” She mimes a flower blooming.
    “Yeah, I’m okay.” Kicking out of the sleeping bag, I scratch at my bandages.
    “I got some clothes for you. If you want to wash what you’ve got on.”
    “Thanks.” The denim shorts and well-worn tee smell like cigarettes, but at least they’re dry. The old sneakers are at least a size too big. “How come you’re dressed like that?”
    “Going to work.”
    “Oh. I thought you were in a band.”
    She snorts. “Yeah, well, rock ’n’ roll’s just the money gig. My passion is being a bank teller. Want some coffee?”
    “No thanks.”
    “Well, it’s there if you change your mind. Not much else food-wise. Some sandwich stuff, I think. Ravioli and some canned stuff in the laundry room.”
    For a table, Stratofortress has a giant cable spool in the middle of the dining room, Florence Utilities stenciled across the top. Dishes lie stacked in the kitchen sink, a fly buzzing round them. I really don’t want to eat anything from here, but I make myself say, “Thanks. And thanks for letting me stay here.”
    “Mmhmm.” Her eyes widen suddenly and she says, “Hey, we’re going to go see a band later tonight. Want to come with us?”
    “Oh, no. Thanks, but I—”
    “Band called the Herpes Sponges. Sure you don’t want to come?”
    “Uh, yeah.” That’s what I called LeighAnn yesterday. My face burns from the memory. My throat tightens. But she says it calmly, a rushed, half-remembered thing. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe God is just reminding—
    “Kinda ticks me off, actually. I was going to