Dad died for me because he loved me. I’m going to join the Watch, I’m going to be good, I’m going to make the Angels suffer, because I love him.
A boy in the crowd leans on his friend, and I see the person next to Erin: a scraggly white kid in a patchwork coat. In funerals like the ones I’ve seen in movies, I could picture them as the widow. Instead of a bouquet of lilies, sprawling white funeral flowers, they clutch a charm bracelet.
I wish I had Dad’s watch. His wedding ring. A scrap of his shirt, his blood under my fingernails. Anything.
“If anyone knew him,” Erin murmurs, “it was Alex.” She puts a hand on their shoulder, ducking her head ever so softly. I remember Erin asking Salvador to track them down in the hours after Trevor’s death, because they’d disappeared and she was worried—and I remember their coat lurking near the ham radio in the lobby, only catching flashes of it as I passed by. They looked so gaunt, so destroyed. They still do. “Is there anything you want to say?”
Alex shakes their head and puts the bracelet in the tiny grave.
They never got to see Trevor’s body, did they? Do I pity them for it, or am I jealous? Would I feel better if Dad had been killed behind my back, if Steven had grabbed me by the neck and led me away while Brother Hutch put Dad down? If Dad hadn’t died with his hand in my hair and his blood in my mouth?
“You’re grinding your teeth,” Nick whispers.
I unclench. It takes every muscle in my face to manage it. “Thanks.”
Do I believe Dad is in Heaven? What happened when the bullet tore through his brain and turned that delicate organ to sludge? I want to think he’s happier now than he was, suffocating under Mom and the church, but I can’t stomach it.
“Again,” Nick says.
“Shit.” I work my jaw and stare at the brick wall beside me because it’s better than looking at the grave. “I just…”
“I know.”
Somebody else is talking now. Alex stands to the side, wrapped up in their coat, head down in silence. They’re so small. I wonder if I looked that small beside Dad’s body, in the moments between his head shattering and me getting to my feet to run.
A prayer for the dead is sacrilege, heresy, blasphemy. I was never taught any, so I have to make one. I dredge up Mom’s words, the church’s howling screams, and fasten them into something I’m not sure I believe. O Lord, accept these souls into your arms and ease their suffering. Do they reach anything? Maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s true as long as it takes a bit of this weight off my chest. In Your wisdom, let them be judged and let them rest. I can’t tell if I’m faking it. If I just want it to be true the same way Faith wanted it, so we know there’s something more than nothing.
Alex stifles a sob and steps away.
Prayers don’t help any of the living besides the one saying them. I can’t just stand here. I promised I would help.
I whisper to Nick, “Be right back.”
He says nothing, just watches.
Alex is walking away from the grave. They look a lot like me: pale, feminine in the face, bags under the eyes. I catch them by the back door, underneath the sniper’s legs dangling off the roof, right before their hand reaches the handle.
“Hey,” I whisper. Alex jumps and turns a watery glare on me. “Alex, right?”
They sneer, “Who the hell are you?”
I understand anger, God, I do. “I’m Benji. The new guy. I wanted to say…” I was there when Trevor died. I watched the light go out of his eyes. “I lost somebody a few days ago too. If you, uh, want to talk about it? I’m here.”
Alex punches me in the face.