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“My name is George Clark. You met me a long time ago.”

“Johnny’s father?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember you looking like this.”

Waves of images played through my mind. My memory wasn’t bad. Yes, I’d been in shock when Wilmot disappeared, but other than that, I hadn’t forgotten more than anyone else would over time. Something in my system was muddling things, but now I worked hard to remember George Clark. While his son might have been on my radar, he hadn’t. He was a grown-up. When I was thirteen, grown-ups were part of that world that I couldn’t, didn’t want to, be a part of. I’d been forced into growing up, of course, but by then George hadn’t been around.

I could see a faint image of a memory of him now, though—long, dark hair.

“Did you cut your hair?” I asked.

He chuckled without humor. “I did it myself. I don’t look like the younger me, but my hair might have been a giveaway, so I had to chop it off.”

“Your Mobil cap … I think I remember it too.”

“I worked at that Mobil up 19. Got the cap back then.”

“You wanted to be recognized,” I said without thinking. “It was a clue.”

George sighed. “No, Hazel, not really. I guess … maybe I just wanted to see if anybody cared enough to recognize me. I’m not surprised that they didn’t.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t.” I was but not for reasons that had anything to do with his ego.

“You were young, and things were crazy … it all got out of hand.”.

“You killed your son?”

“What? Of course not.”

“What got out of hand?” I asked. “I didn’t know about the classes.”

George’s head pulled back a little as if he was surprised. “Yes, you did. It was all about you in the end anyway.”

I sucked in another thread of drool before it left my mouth. Whatever was debilitating me was fading some, but not fast enough. “George, I don’t remember the classes at all.” I paused. “I remember Johnny, though.”

A strangled noise came from his throat. “He liked you.”

“I liked him. He was a nice boy.” I paused, wisps of fog clearing a little from my brain. “Were you watching me with the camera?”

“It fell off the tree shortly after I put it there, so no. I saw you struggle on the ground though. That’s why I came for you. Hazel, what do you remember about Johnny?”

“What?”

“Johnny. What do you remember about him?”

I had no memory of any specific moment with Johnny Clark other than a flash of when he had dinner with us, but for a reason I still didn’t know, I suspected his father had killed Silas and created bone sculptures around Black Vulture, one made from his son’s dug-up bones. I didn’t think he was doing any of it for any other reason than some sort of tribute or revenge for Johnny. Even with a muddled mind, I figured I could pretend like I had something to tell him that he might find interesting, and maybe he’d keep me alive long enough for the effects of whatever was slowing me down to wear off. A clear head would surely help me figure something out.

I started coughing, pretending it was uncontrollable. “I need air.” I coughed harder.

“Tell me about Johnny!” George said.

I kept coughing. I was working so hard, I fell back to the floor again, on the side that didn’t have the broken arm. It still hurt. The cries of anguish that came then were genuine.

“Oh, God damn it!” George exclaimed.

He put his hands under my armpits and started to drag me out of the cave. The pain was so horrific that, as much as I tried to fight it, I passed out again.