1917

March 15, 1918

It took an agonizing three days for the relentless headaches and searing fever to finally subside. Each passing hour felt like a miniature eternity, stretching the ordeal into what seemed more like three years. The weight of the sickness lingered in my mind, etched as a memory I’d rather forget but knew I never could.

Oh, and the coughing. During my delirium, it was as if my lungs had turned against me, expelling every breath with violent force. Each fit left me gasping, drained, and dreading the next inevitable wave. It clawed at my chest, relentless and unforgiving, a constant reminder of how fragile I had become.

To put it bluntly, it was not something I ever wanted to experience again. The whole ordeal had stripped me of every ounce of strength—both physical and emotional—leaving me hollow and battered. Yet, as I lay in the stillness of recovery, I clung to the faint relief of having made it through. For now, at least, I had survived.

As I regained my strength, the thought of visiting Michael crept into my mind. He had been worried sick about me—I could tell even before I fell ill—and it felt wrong not to let him know I was finally on the mend. The thought of his concern tugged at me, and I decided to act on it.

Michael lived on 1814 Cranberry Road, not too far from where I lived, here in Montgomery, Alabama. The route was familiar, lined with quiet homes and old oak trees whose branches arched over the street like a natural canopy. I knew it well enough to navigate without a second thought, yet somehow, this walk felt different.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I set off for his house. The crisp air filled my lungs, a welcome contrast to the stale confines of my sickroom. Each step seemed to distance me further from the fevered haze that had held me captive for days. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt human again.

I rang the doorbell, expecting to see Michael’s familiar face—or at least hear his voice calling me inside. Instead, the door creaked open to reveal his grandmother, her face streaked with tears. She looked at me with a grief so raw it was almost unbearable to witness.

“What’s the problem, ma’am?” I asked, my voice hesitant, though a gnawing fear was already clawing at my insides.

She sobbed, clutching the doorframe as though it was the only thing keeping her upright. “Michael is dead,” she managed between choked cries, the words hitting me like a punch to the gut.

The world seemed to tilt for a moment, the weight of her statement pressing down on me. I stood there frozen, unable to respond, as the reality of her words sank in. Life, it seemed, was determined to screw me over yet again, stealing away another piece of my heart when I had so little left to give.

“Impossible!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the stillness of the neighborhood. The sheer force of my denial startled even me, but I didn’t care. There was no way Michael could just die like that. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t right.

Tears streamed down my cheeks in relentless waves, hot and unforgiving. Each one felt like a dagger carving out pieces of my heart. My mind swirled with anger, sorrow, and confusion, all of it directed at the cruel hand life had dealt. I cursed the world with every ounce of venom I had left in me, and then I turned my rage upward.

“God, you evil bastard!” I spat into the air, my words sharp and unfiltered, my grief boiling over into blasphemy.

The second the words escaped my mouth, regret hit me like a brick wall. The weight of my own audacity crushed me. God wasn’t evil, I realized. Michael’s death wasn’t some divine punishment or malicious act—it was simply his time. The realization didn’t make the pain any easier to bear, but it softened my anger, replacing it with an aching emptiness I didn’t know how to fill.

“Come inside and have some crumpets and tea, dearie,” she said softly, her voice trembling but laced with a kindness that cut through my grief. Despite her sorrow, she extended her hospitality, offering me a small refuge from the storm of emotions swirling within me.

It was an offer I simply could not refuse. “Yes, I will,” I managed to say, my voice uneven as I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself and calm the chaos in my heart, even if only for a moment.

She stepped aside, holding the door open for me. The warmth of the house embraced me as I entered, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness I felt inside. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. As I settled into the familiar surroundings, I tried to prepare myself for the weight of the conversation that was sure to come.

“I have heard a lot about you, Jeremiah,” she said once we were inside, her voice tinged with an almost maternal warmth. My stomach dropped like a lead weight. I didn’t know what she’d been told, but a part of me feared it was all the wrong things—my mistakes, my missteps, my moments of recklessness.

“Like what?” I asked anxiously, my voice faltering as I stood awkwardly near the door.

She smiled faintly, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Like the fact that you like to read books about adventures,” she began, “and that you have an interest in dinosaurs.”

Her words took me by surprise. A small flicker of relief sparked within me as she gestured for me to sit. The chairs in the kitchen looked almost regal, upholstered in rich, real leather that seemed far too luxurious for the humble surroundings. They must have been worth a pretty penny, I thought, but I quickly shoved the observation aside.

I sat down across from her, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and unease. If she knew those things about me, it meant Michael had told her. That realization hit harder than I expected, and my chest tightened with a renewed pang of grief.

“Where is everyone?” I asked, glancing around the quiet house.

“Father is at work, and Mother is working as a nanny,” she replied plainly, her tone matter-of-fact but not unkind.

Her words stirred something in me—a flicker of nostalgia for a time when I too had a nanny. Her name was Susan, and I’d adored her with the naive fervor of childhood. I used to tell her, with the utmost sincerity, that we’d be married someday. I chuckled inwardly at the memory; I was eight years old, and she was twenty-nine. The idea was absurd, of course, but at the time, it had seemed perfectly reasonable to my younger self.

For a moment, the memory provided a brief escape from the heavy reality of the present. But as quickly as it came, it faded, leaving me with the dull ache of loss that seemed to follow me everywhere now.

Eventually, though, it was time for me to go. I thanked Michael’s grandmother for her hospitality and began making my way to the door. Just as I was stepping outside, his father arrived home, his gait unsteady, the faint smell of alcohol already wafting in the air.

Without so much as a greeting, he shoved me aside with a force so strong that I stumbled backward and fell unceremoniously onto my tush.

What an asshole! The thought exploded in my mind, my cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and embarrassment. I picked myself up, brushing the dirt from my clothes, my fists clenched.

For a brief moment, I thought about yelling at him, demanding to know how he could act so cruelly to a stranger—especially one mourning his son. But I held back. I didn’t want to escalate the situation or make things harder for Michael’s grieving grandmother.

Still, as I walked away, I couldn’t stop wondering. How could Michael have loved someone so despicable? The thought gnawed at me all the way home.