Archive of Our Own

“At this point of his effort man stands face to face with the irrational. He feels within him his longing for happiness and for reason. The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world.” - Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

———

Lake County, Florida - 1995

Courtland Gentry was used to the unreasonable silence of the world. 

At least, he was used to being silent within it.

He shut off the radio the second he pulled into the driveway, taking his foot off the gas to let the truck idly creep down twin stripes of dirt leading to the slumping carport next to the garage. The Florida humidity had done a number on the structure over the years, half the white paint either flaking or long since sloughed off, support beams gone soft with wood rot. It always seemed one storm season away from toppling down completely, but Court had already learned the hard way that he wasn’t to take up space in his father’s garage. Besides, if the roof ever caved in one of these days, it would just be finally putting the old Chevy out of its misery. 

Court just hoped he wouldn’t be inside it when it did. 

Well, some days he didn’t mind that thought, actually. 

The brakes let out a long, sharp squeal when Court came to a stop and he tensed involuntarily, wincing as the movement pulled on one of the newest bruises on his shoulder. Maybe it was just in his head, but the sound seemed to carry through the grove of Longleaf pines making up the front yard, cutting into the quiet, blue, early morning softness like a hatchet. 

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he finally felt himself exhale, tipping his head back against the headrest and taking in a few moments of quiet all to himself. The mourning doves had just begun their laments when Courtland got home from work, their low, melodic calls floating on a breeze through the open window, and when he closed his eyes he could almost pretend he was at peace. The clattering echoes of dishes and strangers’ laughter slowly faded from his memory, the thick scent of cheap soap no longer clinging to his skin as strongly. The dull throbbing in his ribs was easier to ignore now. In a few minutes, he would go inside the house and see his kid brothers sleeping soundly in their beds, safe and unscathed. 

Court made the mistake of smiling. The most recent cut on his lip split back open and the disgustingly familiar taste of his own blood pulled him roughly back into the present. And with it, the memory of John Gentry’s right hook.

At least he’d been able to spare the twins from any hurt that night.  

Allowing himself a sigh, he grabbed his backpack from the passenger seat and locked up the truck behind him, skirting around the side of the small house to the back door. The damp grass and carpet of pine needles made for soft ground to walk on but that didn’t keep the world from noticing his presence as startled wings fluttered between the trees directly overhead, followed by offended chittering. Even the hinges of the storm door groaned a little in protest when Court opened it, unlocking the inner door and closing both as gently as he could. 

Having what was essentially a private entrance to his room did have its perks. Court’s room wasn’t really a bedroom, it was more like a small sunroom that doubled as a utility space, now tripling as where he slept and kept his clothes and belongings. Sometimes the water softener system in the corner made noises that woke him up and he learned not to keep his laundry near the windows during heavy rain if he wanted dry clothes for school the next day. Palmetto bugs sometimes snuck in against all odds and he had to patch up their points of entry as they appeared. It wasn’t ideal- very little about his situation was- but the twins had gotten too big to be sharing the same bed and three boys in one room with Court’s odd hours stopped working out a long time ago. It was just another reality he had to accept. 

He dug into the pocket of his jeans for the rumpled bills and small handful of change he’d gotten earlier- his share of tips for the night- and counted it out into two even piles, the odd amount going back into his pocket. 

Ever since he started his dishwashing gig getting paid under the counter at the 24 hour diner by the interstate, Court kept two jars beneath one of the floorboards by his bed, each with one of the twins’ names written on them. He wasn’t old enough to open bank accounts on his own- hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be driving without an adult, he knew where to avoid the speed traps on the county road, though- but he needed to be able to give his brothers a head start to getting out of this place. Their father was rapidly drinking through any inheritance they could hope to get whenever his liver finally decided to call it quits and Courtland was determined to keep his brothers from getting dragged down with him, no matter the cost. With their mother gone, he was the last line of defense between the boys and their father, and not always a very good one.

But he was trying. 

Court’s empty stomach was killing him and while he wanted nothing more than to go horizontal on the twin mattress he’d long since outgrown, he needed to eat and start getting the twins ready for school. 

Removing his shoes, he walked quietly to the kitchen and set a bag of food he’d gotten from work on the counter. The tiled floors were cool under his socked feet and thankfully didn’t creak like the floorboards in the living room. With practiced efficiency, he dug out the can of Folgers from the cabinet and shook out what he estimated to be about a spoonful of the instant coffee mixture into the first clean cup he could find, a dark orange mug. It had been a while since he’d had coffee at home and he truly owed his gratitude to overstock sales. 

In a few minutes, the kitchen was filled with the comforting smell of coffee and he found himself leaning against the counter by the sink, tired hands being warmed by the ceramic mug as he closed his eyes and attempted to treasure these stolen moments he had for himself. 

Court wondered what his mother would think about him drinking black coffee at fifteen years old. She always drank hers with a fair amount of milk and sugar- if they had it. 

Speaking of which-

Fuck.

Court wrangled the fridge door open with one hand and a quick survey of the concerningly sparse contents confirmed what he’d feared. Though there were some vegetables nearing the end of their prime, plenty of beer cans, half a loaf of bread, and leftovers from dinner among other things, there was a distinct lack of milk that the twins needed for their cereal. Sure, he knew that when they were out he could eat cereal with water instead- which was what he did anyway to save the milk for his brothers’ breakfasts- but that wasn’t something he was about to make seven year olds do. Court budgeted carefully because their father couldn’t care less if they starved, tearing out coupons from the mail, largely avoiding name-brands, and maybe on occasion pocketing smaller fruits and vegetables just to trim things down. The twins weren’t totally oblivious to the scarcity they lived with, but Court prided himself on keeping them from going without too much. 

And that mission had included picking up milk at the gas station on his way home.

Which he forgot. Obviously. 

“Fuck.”

The sound of the fridge door closing almost hid the creak of a floorboard behind him and Courtland nearly dropped his coffee as the tension ratched up in his body, stomach sinking like a stone while his own heartbeat thundered past his ears. The coppery tang of blood in his mouth cut through the bitter aftertaste of his coffee and he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not. 

His head told him to turn around and face his fate. His instincts told him to run. 

His bruised body reminded him that either choice had the same result. 

“Court?” a small voice finally called to him.

The relief was instant. Court felt like he was suddenly in freefall, shoulders coming down and limbs loosening as he took a measured breath, turning around to see one of the twins sleepily ambling into the kitchen. 

The boy before him had a shock of untidy blonde hair and was wearing one of Court’s old cross-country shirts and a pair of too-small pants as his pajamas. The shirt came down to his knees, the lettering was cracked and faded with age, while the pants stopped quite shy of his ankles. People would say all the time that they couldn’t tell the twins apart, especially when they were younger, but Courtland never really found himself having that issue. Aside from being their big brother, their differences in personality and appearance just shone through so strongly sometimes. Now, even exhausted from an overnight shift at the diner down the road and coming down from his brief moment of panic, he knew exactly which one of his little brothers was in front of him. 

It also helped that when the boy yawned widely, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists, Court could see a full set of teeth in his mouth. Meaning this was Ryland. Colt had knocked out one of his baby teeth about a week and a half ago after smacking his face off the handlebar of his bike when a backyard stunt went wrong. To Court’s surprise, the little daredevil had seemed completely unphased by the whole affair, but that attitude didn’t last long once Court declared that he was now banning Colt from watching Knight Rider reruns ever again. 

Being the responsible one really fucking sucked sometimes. Court had liked that show, and he’d already had to ban Miami Vice, so he was feeling the loss a little more saliently than he otherwise would have. Maybe he mostly liked the episodes with Bonnie or RC3 in them, sure, but that was besides the point. Somebody needed to make sure that an impressionable kid like Colt knew that David Hasselhoff didn’t really flip cars like that, and his second-hand Huffy definitely wasn’t KITT. 

“I know he doesn’t do them,” Colt had said petulantly, looking at Courtland like he couldn’t believe his big brother would consider something so stupid. “I’m trying to be like the person who does!”

God help him. 

“Hey, what’re you doing up this early, Ry?” Court whispered, coffee forgotten as he scooped the boy up into his arms. At seven years old, Ryland was getting to be a little too big to be carried like this anymore, but he still fit right into his brother’s embrace like he would always belong there, feathery blonde hair tickling Court’s neck as he nestled his little head comfortably into the crook of his shoulder. 

“Heard your truck pull up,” Ryland mumbled sleepily, his cheek pressed up against Court’s collarbone as he gripped his brother’s shirt with alarming strength for someone his size. “Wan’ed to see you.”

Guilt swelled in Courtland’s chest and he half wondered if Ryland was able to feel it too. He always tried so hard to keep from waking the twins when he worked overnight- not as hard as he tried to keep from waking their father on the nights he was even home, but Court paid the price for those times- 

“I’m so sorry I woke you up,” Court whispered against his hair, fighting the urge to press a small kiss atop his head. Ryland had insisted he was too old for that now and it damn near broke Court’s heart to hear it considering it was the same week Colt admitted he was too scared to take baths after having seen their father holding Court underwater one night. He had been so careful to keep from screaming so they wouldn’t have to hear it. 

“S’okay,” Ryland yawned again, unaware of his brother’s internal conflict, a little huff of warm breath brushing Court’s chin. “School starts late today. Mrs. Harvey said so yesterday.”

“She did, huh?” Court didn’t think that Ryland would be the one to pull his leg about something like this- the fact that the kid actually liked going to school gave him a lot of hope, to be honest- but that didn’t stop him from casting a surreptitious glance toward the school district calendar he’d stuck to the fridge. 

Sure enough, Thursday, today, was marked as a late start for certain grades since the others had the state standardized testing to complete. Poor bastards. 

Thank God and Mrs. Harvey, though. He’d been given a couple extra hours with his brothers this morning before he needed to get them to the bus. Greater miracles than this were few and far between in his life. 

“Hey, Ry?”

A sleepy sniffle. “Uh huh?”

“Where’s-” Court swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Where’s Dad, bud?”

“He left,” Ryland said plainly, his tone startlingly indifferent like it was just a piece of information that bore no implications. “I don’t know when. It was dark out.”

Courtland didn’t know whether to start swearing violently or dance because that monster was out of the house. As much as he hated leaving the twins alone at home with their father, he needed to work. But it was just as bad that their dad had left two seven year olds completely alone in the house overnight. It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last, but God forbid anything were to happen to them while Court was gone- 

It didn’t bear thinking about. And yet the nightmares seemed to reach him on a regular basis. 

“His work boots are gone,” Ryland supplied, ever observant. “Maybe he went to work.”

That seemed to be the likeliest explanation. John usually sobered up by morning to get to his job, which currently involved managing a construction detail over in Ocala. Or something like that. The details of his father’s life outside of the home were only of interest to Courtland in the same way one needed to be aware of a predator that had gone out of sight. 

“Well, I’m here now,” Courtland reassured Ryland, squeezing him a little tighter. “And I’ve got some great news for you, pal.”

Ryland was suddenly wide awake now. “What’s that?”

“We’re having special breakfast today,” Court decided, the lack of milk in the house now even more urgent that one of the twins was awake and both would be hungry and needing to eat soon. Special breakfast had been his back-up catchall phrase for situations like this, loosely translating to Court puts together a morning meal with whatever the fuck he has on hand because cereal is off the menu, gentlemen. 

The bonus was that this was always a hit with his audience. In his excitement, Ryland nearly threw an elbow into Courtland’s bruised ribs as he wriggled out of his brother’s hold, bare feet hitting the tiles with a sharp smack. “We gotta wake Colt up!”

“Oh, no, Ry, we don’t need to do that yet-!” Court whisper-yelled, reaching to reign him in, but Ryland was faster, already running down the hall to the bedroom he shared with Colt. 

Dawn had just barely broken, he was still in his work clothes, hadn’t showered or eaten yet, and was now resigning himself to the fact that he was about to have two very over-excited second graders demanding special breakfast as soon as humanly possible. He would never complain, though. Seeing them able to be this enthusiastic and happy about something so mundane brought a warmth to his day that Court wouldn’t trade for anything. 

Some days, when Court was down on the floor or holed up in his room patching up the aftermath of his father’s wrath, he wondered if his father was really trying to kill him. During those times there were moments- brief and infrequent- that Court wished he wasn’t so bad at it. 

The thing was, Courtland never fought back. It was his rule. Fighting back always made things worse. The twins would take notice and come running right into the crossfire, and seeing either of them hurt was so much worse than anything their father could do to him. Their father wanted compliance, and he would beat it into his sons if he had to. So, the path of least resistance was worn down by Courtland’s frequent travels. Don’t fight back. Don’t defend yourself. 

But on the bad days…he couldn’t tell if his reason was as noble as he thought. 

Court couldn’t afford those bad days, though. Ryland and Colt couldn’t afford them. They’d already lost their mother, they couldn’t lose their brother too. And he couldn’t lose them. He was pretty sure he’d forget how to live if he went a single day without seeing their bright faces smiling at him. 

Every time he was down, he managed to get back up. For them. 

He followed Ryland down the short hallway to the bedroom and looked in just as the youngest twin reached his brother, lightly shaking what Court assumed to be Colt’s shoulder- though it was impossible to tell from the mess of blankets he was sprawled under. Courtland held back a chuckle, instead allowing his gaze to wander around the room as he wondered how on earth the three of them had managed to fit in here together. The twins each had a bed and small dresser pushed up against opposite sides of the room, Ryland’s space distinguishable by stacks of library books and jars containing shells and rocks, and Colt’s by muddy shoes kicked under the bed and cereal box race cars. Backpacks and jackets hung neatly on the hooks Court had put into the wall for them, and a paper chain with stars on it hung from the blades of the ceiling fan.

Court’s mouth dropped open a little at that. How the hell did they even reach-

Nope. He didn’t want to know. He was too young for a heart attack. 

“Colt, get up! Get up!” Ryland was hissing to his twin brother, switching tactics to patting a newly exposed foot that had kicked out from under the blankets. “Court says it's special breakfast day!”

“G’uh,” came a distinctly Colt-like voice near the head of the bed. There was some rustling, and an ear became visible along with some spikes of blonde hair, very similar to but lighter than Ryland’s. 

Progress was being made and it was clear that Ryland would not be deterred by his brother’s lack of cooperation, but for the sake of sparing Colt from any more prodding, Court stepped in with the nuclear option. 

“I’m making bacon,” Courtland offered.

Colt was out of bed so fast he nearly knocked Ryland clean off his feet. 

———

Here’s the thing. Court didn’t actually have bacon. However, he’d found that if he cut up lunch meat into strips and fried them to a near crisp, hungry seven year olds weren’t too critical about it. 

He’d intended for the small bag of leftover food and ingredients he brought back from the diner to mostly be his own lunch and dinner for the day, but the leftover pasta in the fridge was going to have to suffice after all. The container of cut-up fruit got divied up semi-evenly between the twins’ plates- Ryland said cantaloupe made his mouth itchy so he got more of the apples instead- and Court scrambled three eggs as efficiently as he could. Colt insisted on helping and was permitted to fish the bag of sliced bread from the fridge to make toast, enlisting Court briefly to lift him onto the counter where he sat swinging his feet and munching on one of the end pieces and getting crumbs all over his Star Wars sleepwear. Star Trek? Star something else? Whatever movie it was, they’d watched it on a VHS that Court got from a garage sale and the twins absolutely loved every minute of it. 

“This is great,” Colt proclaimed definitively, grinning to reveal the gap in his teeth and- gross, the nub of a new tooth making its way in. “Best breakfast ever.”

“You say that every time,” Ryland pointed out over his plastic cup of orange juice, unimpressed by his brother’s indiscriminate praise. Court clapped a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded.

“I mean it every time,” Colt insisted, reaching out a small hand to pat Court’s bicep in what Court assumed was a show of appreciation. The older twin wasn’t always the best at communicating his emotions, but what he did say, he made it count. 

“I love you, bud,” Court told him like it was as easy as breathing. It wasn’t, though. It was easier. He managed to get a quick peck on the side of Colt’s forehead before he squealed and batted him away. Well, you couldn’t win ‘em all. 

Serving and plating up breakfast was only hindered by the twins’ impatience as they got downright clumsy when they rushed, but eventually the three of them were sat at the table and digging into breakfast. What was so special about Colt putting ketchup on his toast because they were also out of butter could be left up to debate, but otherwise Court was modestly proud of himself for getting a hearty breakfast together for all of them even if it meant he was going to have to get more creative with his meals later. 

With their father out of the house, though, and the twins happy and fed, Courtland could pretend that, just for now, their life was a good one. 

It was nice. 

“You need more carbs,” Colt said abruptly, doling out this prescription in the form of ketchupy crusts deposited onto Court’s plate. At least they’d been methodically torn off the toast instead of bitten. “For brain energy.” 

Court had learned long ago to stop being surprised by random bits of knowledge coming from the twins. Usually it turned out to be something they’d learned in school or were parroting from a book or TV. “Is that right?”

“Yep,” Ryland affirmed on Colt’s behalf. “We learned it in science last week.”

“Well, look at you two little genius Graces,” Court smiled, ruffling the hair on their heads. Again, pulling at his sore shoulder. Damn, that hurt. 

Colt seemed to catch his wince and pressed his mouth into a line, suddenly uninterested in continuing this topic of conversation. It felt like a punch to the gut to see his little brother looking so guilty. Court wished he could fix it, but that was the problem- their father was just too good at breaking things, and even as Court tried to fix them it was hard when he was one of them. 

As a peace offering, Court reluctantly ate some of the ketchup toast. Not bad. Weirder than Ryland’s peanut butter tortillas he’d made before, but not bad. 

“What do you learn about in science?” Ryland asked curiously, spearing a piece of scrambled egg with his fork. 

Busted. Honestly, Court wasn’t too sure at the moment seeing as how he’d missed his last two sessions to go to the nurse’s office because his injured ribs had made breathing a little more painful than usual. He had to make up some story about falling up the school stairs. It helped that the bruises hadn’t looked like his father’s boot prints anymore. It sucked because Court had somehow tested into honors biology only to now just be shy of failing out of it, and here he was with a little brother who lived and breathed science. 

“We learn about evolution,” Court finally answered, wracking his brain for the most recent unit he could think of. “How different animals adapted different traits to survive in different places. It’s kind of why some animals are better at living in hot and dry places while others do better in water and cold.”

“Oh, that’s so cool!” Ryland’s eyes lit up with interest and Court got a feeling that this was going to be the subject of their next library trip. He’d just introduced the concept of evolution to a second grader, after all. 

“We have a late start today,” Colt informed Court like it was news, reaching for more juice. He was getting better at pouring without spills now. Talk about evolution. “Do you have a late start too?”

Probably. He wasn’t sure. 

“Yeah, it’s the same for me.” Court smiled, if only to keep up the illusion. That seemed to sate Colt’s curiosity just fine. 

Ryland didn’t look convinced, but he kept his mouth shut, chewing his eggs quietly. In a house like this, any child would be forced to grow up fast, but Courtland swore the intelligence that kid had defied any explanation. At seven years old, he knew far too much about the world, and when he looked at Court there was sometimes the distinct feeling that he was being seen into. 

To tell the truth, Court showed up to school enough to keep his grades passing- mostly- and attendance levels satisfied. Mostly. Just enough to keep himself and the twins under the radar. If someone found out what was going on at home, they might be saved from their father, sure, but then what? There was no guarantee the three of them would be able to stay together. The state already had its hands full with other fucked up and traumatized teenagers like Court. Ryland needed someone to nurture his curiosity and be a steady support when his fear and anxiety overwhelmed him. Colt needed someone who could help him channel his energy and bravery in ways that didn’t end with him getting hurt, and not blow their lid when he came home declaring his intentions to propose marriage to his classmates, one such being Taylor Delgado, who Court came to realize- albeit with a little anxiety- was not a girl. Taylor Curtis was a girl, though, and she’d already turned Colt down the week before. 

And Courtland? He just needed Ryland and Colt with him. It was the only way he could keep them safe. Everything he did was for his brothers. 

Everything. 

So they lived in the blind spot of the system. It was as much a shelter as it was a sentence. 

“Can I have coffee too?” Colt’s eyes were wide as he watched Court take a sip from his mug.

Oh, hell no. Colt was a firecracker on a good day, the last thing he needed to be was caffeinated as well. “Sorry, Lightning Colt, you’re not old enough. Do you want some more orange juice?”

“I would like some coffee,” he said primly. 

“No can do, buckaroo,” Court shook his head, downing the rest of his mug in a few quick gulps to remove it from the equation. 

“Why not?”

“I just said, bud.” 

“But it’s special breakfast!”

“No.”

“Fine. But I’m going to drink so much coffee when I’m older,” Colt swore with a pout, crossing his scab-speckled arms across his chest. 

Ryland looked a little stricken at the prospect. “Please, don’t.”

———

After breakfast, Courtland had convinced the twins to have some quiet homework time with the promise of TV later so he could shower and change and restore some further semblance of life to his aching body. They of course obliged, ever the fierce defenders of their big brother, and even behaved long enough for him to get an hour of shut-eye on the couch. When he woke up, he found that they’d placed blankets over him and left their homework in neat stacks on the kitchen table for him to review, along with a hand-drawn card thanking Court for being their brother. It came with a portrait of him. He was standing on Saturn and his hair was blue. 

Holy hell, he loved these boys so much. 

Lunches were packed, homework was checked, outfits fussed over, and eventually, Court brought Ryland and Colt to the end of the driveway to get on the school bus, waiting around until they were too far away to keep waving at. 

He called himself in sick to school since the day was almost half over anyway and set to work cleaning up after their breakfast. Going through the stack of mail on the counter, Court fished out two bills, one past due and the other final notice, and wrote out checks for the appropriate amount with his father’s checkbook he kept tucked in the junk drawer. 

Someone had to do it. 

After that, he cleaned the living room and the twins’ room, coming across one of his own books hidden away amongst Ryland’s latest library haul. He thumbed through the yellow pages, edges gone soft with age, wondering how it had ended up in here under one of those Eyewitness Science books the younger twin loved so much.  

The library had a cart of used books that could be bought for a quarter each, and while Court usually fished out loose change for the twins to get whatever caught their eye, both seemed quite satisfied with their pile of loaners and were borderline insistent that Court pick out a book too. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he made his choice because he liked the cover and the title was vaguely cool. The Myth of Sisyphus. He figured maybe it was some kind of heroic adventure story he could read the twins as part of their nighttime routine, sneakily working them into his choice. However, once he actually started reading it after they got home, he realized it was definitely beyond the scope of elementary schoolers. 

Court found himself increasingly intrigued by the ideas in the book, resonating far too much with the struggle to carve out meaning in a world like this one. It helped him understand just how much of a touchstone his brothers were to him. 

What Court had- this wasn’t really life. Not the one he wanted. He lived in a constant gray area between happiness and despair. The one loving parent in his life was in the ground and the other beat him senseless every week like he had a point to prove. His family was hanging on by a thread and he probably wasn’t going to graduate high school if things kept going the way they were, never mind college which he couldn’t afford, so there went his chances of getting a decent job when he turned eighteen. He wasn’t going to be able to provide for his brothers and give them the life they deserved if he was stuck in dead-end, below minimum wage jobs forever. 

The twins needed to go to college. That was non-negotiable. Court would be more than happy if Colt got into a state school or community college, just somewhere he could learn about these shows and movies he loved so much. As for Ryland- well, based on his scientific interests, Court entertained dreams that this kid would land himself a fancy scholarship when he got older, but there would still be living expenses, textbooks, things like that, and he would make sure those were taken care of. 

Some days he thought about just bundling them all up into his truck, their precious, meager belongings stowed into the trunk, and driving across the border into Georgia or Alabama. From there, he wasn’t sure where they’d go. Maybe the Carolinas, or California on the opposite coast. Somewhere with beaches for the twins to run on. Anywhere but fucking Florida. 

Anywhere but this house. 

When it came to their father, Ryland was the one that Court worried about the most. Colt’s interests and temperament fit a little more neatly into their father’s ideas of masculinity, making him a slightly smaller target than Ryland. Court would always be the primary punching bag, of course. As the oldest son, he was the one that an example could be made out of. 

Despite the struggles and the universe’s attempts to pummel hopelessness into him, Court resisted the temptation of surrender. His brothers were his meaning. That was enough.

Except some dead philosopher named Albert apparently thought this was absurd. 

The balls on that guy. Courtland kind of had to respect it. 

He put the book back. 

———

With the house all to himself, he should have taken the opportunity to catch up on some sleep, but two cups of coffee had made him restless and there was something he wanted to finish before the twins got home. 

Hauling Colt’s busted-up bike from the garage, Court set himself up on the front porch with a drop sheet, some rags, and one of his father’s toolboxes, long legs sprawled out in front of him as he got to work. The bike had definitely seen better days and it took close to an hour for Court to clear out all the gunk built up on the chain, not to mention the long clumps of Spanish moss that had gotten tangled up in the links and spokes from Colt’s trail-riding escapades. Colt’s latest crash might have been the end of this trusty bike, but Court was nothing if not determined. He popped open the latches to the toolbox and sent up a prayer for good measure.  

His nerves prickled as he searched for the right size wrench, trying to ignore the fact that scattered around the bottom of the toolbox were a handful of shiny bullets to his father’s pistol. The gun itself was in John’s nightstand, Courtland recalled, and probably reloaded from the last time it was used a few months back. Not long after Court turned fifteen, his father had set up a line of empty beer bottles on the edge of the property line and decided it was high time his oldest son knew how to fire a gun. Though mostly terrified, the weight of the weapon in his hand making him slightly nauseous as something twisted and turned inside of him, Court knew it was necessary. It was summer and the coyote population was growing. He’d already found a dead fox in the storm ditch at the end of the driveway and would never forget Ryland’s distressed wails when he caught sight of it, thankful that at least the boy hadn’t been there to see the mauled raccoon behind the garage. 

The feeling of the cold gun in his hand made him sick, but for once Courtland agreed with his father. He needed to know how to shoot. To protect his brothers. To keep the coyotes at bay. 

Turns out he had a damn good aim. 

Court pushed the memory back, burying it under his current task. Colt had astutely attributed his failed stunt to a shaky rear wheel, and sure as shit one of the bolts was coming loose, causing the whole thing to wobble when it spun. He was pleased to see that it was probably an easy fix. There was something so fulfilling about working with his hands, building and fixing things and knowing that he was the one to have done it. His mind felt sharp, his body capable and strong. Living in Florida meant that he still had a healthy tan in early November, and despite not having a consistent enough diet to put weight on his lean build, he recognized that he had a decent amount of natural muscle built up, watching tendons shift in his forearm as he tightened the bike’s rear wheel. Regularly carrying two forty-five pound children around made for a hell of a workout regimen. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but his white tee and jeans were streaked with sweat and dark smudges of grease by the time he’d finished adjusting the seat a little higher to account for Colt’s latest growth spurt. Brake lines seemed okay from what he could tell, but he should check the brakes on Ryland’s bike, too, just to be safe-

“Are those my tools?”

Court felt his heartbeat stumble over itself in his chest at the sound of the rough voice and he froze, staring at the pair of scuffed work boots that stood before him. He didn’t need to see the man’s face to know he’d gotten so lost in his project that he didn’t notice his father’s truck come up the driveway. Shit. 

“Yes, sir,” Court’s voice sounded hollow to his own ears, scraped clean by the dull blade of resignation. The boots didn’t move. 

Against his better judgment, Court looked up from where he sat on the splintering boards of the porch to see his father’s scowling face blocking out the sun behind him. Any attempt to explain his actions faltered in his throat and outright died, blood going cold with fear that only surged stronger the more his father tried to belt it out of him. 

“You ought to know better than to mess with another man’s possessions, boy,” his father’s mouth twisted into a scowl, eyes flicking over Court’s grease stained clothes and forearms. “You need some cleaning up.” 

“Yes, sir,” Court repeated, breathing heavily through his nose now. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run, fight, do something. But he was a fox and this was a coyote. It would only ever end with him in the ditch. 

Whatever he was expecting didn’t come, though. His father gave a low, disapproving grumble, and walked around Court to get to the front door, nearly stepping on his son’s hand in the process. 

The door shut. 

The house was quiet. 

Court let out a shuddering exhale, not trusting his luck. Something wasn’t right. He quickly returned Colt’s bike to the garage and came back to finish clearing up his mess. Careful not to make any noise, he started neatly placing the tools back in the box roughly in the same order he found them in. 

Just as he was ready to roll up the drop sheet and tuck everything back in the garage, the screen door slammed open, angrily striking the vinyl siding of the house. 

“Come here!” Courtland’s father snarled, bruising hands clamping down onto his shoulders and hauling him bodily inside.

Court’s startled cry turned into a pained grunt as he crashed down onto the living room floor, his ribs and arm protesting from where it was pinned underneath him. He didn’t have a second to recover before his father seized him by the back of the shirt, dragging Court in the direction of the bathroom. 

No, no, no no no no-

Court flailed in his father’s grip like a fish on a hook, awful gagging sounds coming from his throat as he struggled to breathe with the collar of his shirt pulled tight against his neck, legs kicking out clumsily against the floor. He could have scratched, hit, tried to tear himself free, but all his fingers were good for was trying to pull at his shirt collar so he could breathe- 

His father dropped him on the bathroom tiles, kicking the door shut with enough force to leave a scuff from his boot. “All this time I’ve been trying to teach you respect and clearly you haven’t been paying attention!”

“No, please, Dad, I’m sorry-” Courtland gasped out, flat on his back as he reached his hands up to his throat, trying to convince himself that the pressure was off his airway now. As much as his father hated this about him, he wasn’t too proud to beg. He was a goddamn teenager, not a grown man. 

John Gentry’s unforgiving eyes darkened and he crouched down to meet his son’s wild, panicked stare.

“Not good enough.”

His arm snapped out fast, grabbing Court by his hair and pulling him violently toward the bathtub. Pain flared across his scalp and Court made a wounded noise, eyes widening even more when he saw the tub was already half full of water. So this was what John had gone inside to do.

“Stop, stop! What are you doing?” Court cried, hands scrabbling against his father’s rough knuckles as he tried to pull himself free. “Dad-!”

“Weren’t you listening, you ungrateful bastard?” John’s voice was downright thunderous in the small space, amplified by the dark blue tiled walls. “We’re getting you cleaned up.” 

That was all the warning Court got before the upper half of his body was forced over the edge of the bathtub and his head went under the freezing cold water. 

The split second wasn’t enough time to prepare and Court made the mistake of gasping, water filling his mouth and going up his nose. The feeling was excruciating and his lungs were already burning, diaphragm fluttering like a panicked bird, desperate for air that couldn’t come.

Then, suddenly, he was pulled up by his hair again. The bathroom felt so much colder now and Court found himself wracked with sputtering coughs as he spat the water from his mouth. The hand was suddenly gone and he took huge, rattling gasps, hands flying out and slipping against the porcelain edge of the bathtub as he tried to steady himself. 

“You know how that makes me look?!” His father roared, boxing him in with his legs and grabbing Court by his jaw to turn his head to face him, grip hard enough to bruise. “Makes me look like a man who can’t keep his own fucking house in order!” 

“I was just-” Courtland choked on his next breath, blinking the steady stream of water from his eyes. “Fixing the bikes-” 

“You need to be taught another lesson in respect, Courtland. Real men need to know respect.”

“I’m sor-”

His apology was aborted as his father closed his left hand around the back of Courtland’s neck and pushed him back over the edge of the tub. The water was deep enough to almost reach his elbows when he pushed his hands against the bottom of the tub in an attempt to rise, but the older man had too much size and strength on him. The only hands that could save his life right now were his father’s. 

And they were the ones trying to kill him. 

Head underwater, Court did the one thing he never dared do anywhere else. 

He screamed. 

———

Court wasn’t sure how long his father’s latest lesson took, but eventually he’d been abandoned in a soaked, beaten, shuddering heap on the floor of the bathroom, the door left wide open as his father left without another word. His mouth tasted bloody again and he thought that at some point he must have bitten his tongue. 

The drain made an ugly gurgling noise as the last of the water spiraled down into it. Face pressed into the cool tiles, Court let out a low groan that might’ve been close to a whimper, curling his knees up against his chest. If he moved any more, he was sure he was going to vomit. 

Without meaning to, he caught a glance of the watch on his wrist. The twins would be home from school any minute. He couldn’t let them see him like this. Just another thing he needed to protect them from. 

He pushed himself up by his forearms, hissing in pain as he dragged his tangled legs into a sitting position. That was the precursor to standing, but that still ended with him stumbling into the edge of the sink and nearly knocking over Ryland and Colt’s toothbrush holder. 

The upper window was cracked open slightly and he could hear the rattle of the garage door opening in the distance, signaling that his father wasn’t in the house.

Court limped to his room, wincing with each step. Stripping out of his wet clothes took far too much strength out of him, but he somehow managed to get into something dry and fix his hair in time to meet the boys at the front door as the bus pulled away down the road. 

“Court!” Ryland moved to fling his arms around his middle before going eerily still, staring unblinkingly at Courtland’s face. 

No, lower. His jaw. His neck. Court hadn’t dared look in the mirror, but based on Ryland’s expression he could guess that the bruises were a real sight to see. 

Colt looked like he was about to start screaming his head off, hands balling into fists even as his lower lip wobbled with emotion. 

“Hey, guys,” Court’s voice was more of a rasp than he liked and he cleared his throat, reaching to take the twins’ backpacks from them. “How was school?”

The diversion failed. Ryland just shook his head, his hands faltering in the air between them before grabbing onto the hem of Court’s shirt like he’d decided that was a safe enough place he could touch without hurting him. Court’s heart swelled in his chest and he adjusted his grip on the backpacks, worried he’d drop them if he lost focus. 

“Dad did this to you,” Colt observed quietly, his words small and angry- too angry for someone so young. 

Court didn’t need to confirm it for him. He tried for a reassuring smile, leading the boys over to the bench by the door. “I’m okay. Shoes off, guys, I know you’ve got some homework to do before dinner.”

“You’re not okay,” Colt shook his head just like Ryland, but he did as his brother told him, sitting down to remove his shoes and kick them toward the mat by the door. “It’s getting worse.”

Court sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, blinking quickly as he turned his gaze upward to stare at the wall above the twins’ heads. He didn’t think he could bear to see the wounded looks on their faces for a second longer. 

Colt shouldn’t know that. But he was right. In recent weeks, their father’s assaults had started becoming less controlled and more erratic and brutal in nature. Court wasn’t sure what had caused this change, only that he felt it. There was only so much he could hide from the twins now that they were getting older, more aware, more protective of him in turn.  

“I can get bandaids,” Ryland offered in a soft voice, ever the problem solver. “Will that help?”

Court’s shoulders sagged and he looked down at his brother, taking in his beautiful, innocent face. This kid cared so deeply about people, it was easy to see. 

Their mom would’ve been so proud of Ryland. Of Colt. 

Court hoped she’d be proud of him too.

“You know what’ll help?” Court knelt down in front of them slowly so as to not agitate his injuries, both new and old. The twins looked at him with an eagerness that said they’d pull the stars down from the sky if that was what he needed. “Story time from both of you.” 

Their expressions soared at the prospect of an achievable goal. That was how Courtland found himself tucked in tightly into his own bed, Ryland and Colt carefully nestled on either side of him as they took turns reading from Colt’s chapter book about kids and the revolutionary war. 

Homework, he decided, could wait. 

But not forever. After an hour of accepting the twins’ attempts at doting, he shepherd them into the kitchen to sit at the table and do their homework, deciding that he would also take a stab at a short essay due in a couple weeks. 

Even with the three of them together, Court couldn’t get the tension to leave his shoulders. Every little sound had his eyes darting to the front door, waiting for the inevitable moment their father came back inside from whatever he was doing in the garage. Still, he wrote his essay, answered the twins’ questions, and brought them snacks when they started to get hungry. When John came back inside he didn’t so much as glance toward his sons in the kitchen, walking past them through the living room toward his bedroom down the opposite hall. 

Colt stared him down the entire time he was in their line of sight. If looks could kill- 

“Eyes right here, bud,” Court said in a hushed voice, tapping Colt’s math homework with his pencil. The kid was learning to subtract two digit numbers and that was going to require his full attention. 

“Fine,” Colt grumbled, reluctantly doing as he was told. Bless him. 

“Court, can you sign our field trip forms?” Ryland asked softly, looking in the direction of his room where no doubt his backpack carrying the papers was. “Mrs. Harvey said we need to bring them back by next week.” 

Court smiled, giving him a short nod. “Sure, Ry, I-”

“Why don’t you ask your own father, boy?” 

Ryland turned his head sharply, mouth falling open with a gasp. None of them had noticed their father come back from his room, his tall form seeming to take up the entire entryway to the kitchen.

Court forgot how to breathe for a moment. This was an old trigger for their father. Any threats to his parenting were threats to his authority. To his reliability. His manhood. To a man like John Gentry, there was no worse transgression. 

To him, Courtland was the biggest challenger there could be. 

And Ryland had just accidentally reinforced that point. 

“Dad, he didn’t mean anything by it, you can sign the forms,” Court said quickly, getting to his feet and beckoning to the twins, his stomach already sinking like a brick. He needed to get his brothers out of here, fast. “We’ll go get them, okay, guys?”

John stepped aside only just enough for Court to squeeze himself and his younger brothers past him, the three of them rushing down the hall to the twins’ room. Gently pushing the boys inside, Court shut the door behind them as softly as possible, the dull click of the handle almost inaudible under his hammering heartbeat. 

Colt began digging through Ryland’s red backpack like a man possessed, flipping through his brother’s meticulously organized folders in search of the permission slips. 

“Court, I’m so sorry,” Ryland’s eyes were wet with tears as he wrapped his arms around Court’s leg. “I didn’t see him-”

“It’s okay, Ry, it’s not your fault,” Courtland reassured him, hugging him back tightly. “Just do me a favor, both of you, and stay in here, okay?”

No matter what you hear, don’t do anything dangerous. 

“But-”

“Thumbs up if you understand, Ry,” Court hated to take a stern tone with the twins, but dammit, this was important. “I mean it.”

Ryland pulled away with great hesitation, watery eyes meeting his big brother’s. Court made a thumbs up at him. Ryland copied it. 

“Colt?” Court turned to look at his other brother. “We good?”

Colt handed him the permission slips, uncurling one of his fists just enough to make a slightly tilted thumbs up. It would have to do. At least it wasn’t a thumbs down. 

“Lock the door,” Court told them as he closed the door behind himself, waiting in the hallway for the lock to click before he made his way back to the kitchen, each step as heavy as those of a man walking to the gallows. 

When he got there, John was sitting at the dining table smoking a cigarette, flicking ashes directly onto the scuffed surface without a care. Court carefully placed the permission slips onto the table in front of them, immediately taking a step back to stay out of arms reach. 

His father barely looked the papers over before stubbing his cigarette out on them, steely eyes fixing onto Court’s. There was something wrong about his eyes, the way he was looking at him- Court just couldn’t place it. 

“You think you’re man enough to be their father?” John stared at his son, tone eerily steady. 

Buried in the question was an accusation, one that Courtland was growing all too familiar with as he got older. His father’s greatest desire was for Court to become what he believed to be a real man, but his greatest fear, perhaps, was that his eldest son would usurp him in that process. 

“No, sir-” Court began, but he never got a chance to finish. 

It was like a switch had been flipped. One second, his father was at the table, and the next, he was lunging, tackling Courtland onto the floor with the force of a charging bull. 

The chair went skittering across the floor and they fell in a tangled heap of limbs, Court just narrowly missed cracking his head off the ground as the wind was knocked out of him for the second time that day. His efforts to break himself free were in vain as his father maintained the upper hand, using his own weight to keep Court down.

“You’re trying to take my place, huh?” his father shouted, spit flying from his cracked lips, teeth bared in a growl. “Is that what you want? You want me gone!”

“No!” Yes, he wanted to scream

“Stop correcting me!” Court opened his mouth to protest but was stunned into silence as pain erupted across his right cheek, the brutal slap coming out of nowhere. Reflexes won out and Court swung a fist, almost hitting his father’s jaw before his wrist was seized and another hit came. His vision swam and there was little time to reorient himself as both of his wrists were pinned to the floor above his head by one of his father’s broad hands, the second pressing heavily on his throat. 

Court lay still, too afraid to take a breath as he stared up at his father’s face, so close to his own. Pinned down, hand to his throat, he was utterly frozen. Frozen like a fox with its neck clamped between a coyote’s jaws. 

One wrong move and it was over. 

This close and Courtland could see that his father’s pupils were dark circles now, the black centers nearly eclipsing the rings of blue around them. 

He was high. Court hadn’t been able to figure it out before. 

“Now he decides to be a man,” their father snarled, his breath hot and stinking of tobacco. If he hadn’t been half out of his mind, Court might have said that some part of his father’s tone sounded almost approving. 

That was before the hand around his throat began to tighten. 

Court gasped, his vision soon tinged by dark spots as he struggled against an immovable force. This time was different than anything before. He knew it with striking certainty. Forget his rule about not fighting back. Either he fought, or he was dying right here in this house. 

Either he fought, or the twins would be left with no one to keep them safe. 

Fear turned to anger. It turned to will. 

There was a moment where his father’s hold shifted. Just enough. 

Courtland took his chance and drove his knee up between John’s legs as hard as he could. 

The agonized howl that came from his father was something preternatural. The hands holding him down were gone as the man collapsed backwards and Court drew in a shaky breath, rolling onto his side just in time to see a frankly terrifying yet magnificent sight. 

“Get away from him!” Colt- brave, reckless Colt- shrieked, grabbing one of the dining chairs and slamming it into the man with all his might. In his altered state, it was enough to take him off his feet, and John Gentry crashed into the cabinet doors, struggling to remain upright.

So much for that thumbs up. 

“That’s it!” their father roared, upending the dining table in his effort to stand. “Now you’re dead!”

Still gasping for air, Court found himself terrifyingly dizzy, his limbs uncooperative as he tried to push himself up off the tiled floor. It wasn’t fast enough. Colt, struck still by fear, reacted too slow, turning to run only seconds before his father reached him, the man deftly seizing him by his hair and swinging the boy bodily into the wall. 

Courtland would never forget the sound of his baby brother’s head connecting with the plaster, the way his slight form crumpled to the ground, still and immobile. 

For a brief, heart-stilling moment, Courtland thought his father’s words had become a decree. Colt was dead. Court had failed him. 

“No,” he said numbly, scrabbling for a hold on the edge of the counter to pull himself up. “Colt-”

Adrenaline set his nerves alight and he got his second wind, rushing to the twin as their father staggered off down the hallway. Court fell down to his knees, pulling his brother into his lap and checking him over, his stomach twisting sharply as he saw the bright red mark on the side of his head where he’d hit the wall. 

Blue eyes blinked up at him and Court could have sobbed right there and then. Colt was alive. Trembling in his brother’s arms, eyes a little unfocused and bleary, but alive. 

“Court,” Colt murmured weakly, almost apologetically. Oh, thank God. 

“It’s going to be okay, Colt,” Court shushed him, ignoring his own pain just enough to get through carrying his brother to the couch, trying to keep him as comfortable as possible. 

Court could take the hits for the most part, but Colt was just a little kid. Head injuries needed doctors. Maybe he’d be able to get Ryland and Colt to his truck before-

“Where’s the little coward, huh?” John bellowed from the hallway near the twins’ room, slamming his fist into the wall with enough force to dent it. His words were slurring now, but still carried through the small house. “You’re not gonna come out and fight me like your brothers?”

Oh, fuck. He was going after Ryland. 

There was no telling what he would do in this state. 

“Court!”

The sound of his youngest brother screaming his name was enough to cut his heart clean in half. Ryland screamed like his life depended on it.

Like it depended on Court.

Whatever Courtland felt now wasn’t fear. It was a distant cousin, something primal. 

Something snapped sharply into place, the path forward never clearer than it was now. All those months ago, John Gentry had taught Courtland exactly what he needed to know to protect his family. That was what he’d been teaching him all these years with every poisoned word, every hand raised to his son. How to put down a threat. 

Lesson learned. 

Court hardly remembered moving, but he somehow found himself sitting on the edge of his father’s bed, sliding the handgun from the nightstand drawer. It was cold.

“Court!!!” Ryland’s pained wails were loud enough to pierce through the walls. The sound of his own name thundered and echoed inside his skull in tandem with his heartbeat. 

 The gun was heavier than he remembered. Maybe he felt lighter. 

“Stop screaming for your brother, he’s not your father!” John screamed back, closer now. “You think you can do this without me, huh? You can’t!” 

Courtland thumbed the safety back.

This was his purpose. 

Their father had dragged Ryland into the half destroyed kitchen, the boy curled in on himself almost exactly where Court had fallen earlier, skinny arms protecting his head as his father swung his foot back, his disoriented kicks missing just as often as they connected. John looked like he was trying to kill him. 

Because he was. 

There was a red streak smeared on the tiles and Court dimly realized he didn’t know if that blood was Ryland’s or his. 

“Stop,” Court said once he found his voice, steady and sure. He stood at his father’s back, out of reach, but just in range. Close enough that he wouldn’t need luck. “Stop!”

Another kick. Another terrified scream. 

Colt started crying from the couch.

“Dad, stop!” Courtland shouted, raising the gun.

This time his father did stop, turning around to face his firstborn son. There was a feral look on his face, skin flushed an angry red, the whites of his eyes pink from burst capillaries. He had never looked more like a monster than he did now. 

It took him a long moment to focus on the gun, his eyes darting between the weapon and his son. His gaze didn’t have far to go, they were one and the same. 

“You won’t shoot me, Courtland,” his father sneered, so arrogant and sure of himself. “You don’t have it in you.”

The man turned back to Ryland, the boy choking on his own cries as he tried to crawl away. Courtland tightened his grip on the gun. He thought of the dead fox in the ditch. The first coyote he shot. 

He would never forget this, his second. 

The decision was made in a heartbeat. Whose, he wasn’t sure.

“I thought you didn’t like being corrected,” Courtland said. 

He pulled the trigger. 

———

There was so much blood. 

Courtland distantly knew there would be when he aimed at his father’s head, but the reality of it was so much more intense than he could have anticipated. 

The gun felt a little lighter in his hand now. Warmer. 

He wanted to scream and cry like a child. 

John Gentry’s body sprawled across the kitchen tiles, blood streaking the cabinets and fridge, but there was only one person in that room that mattered. Courtland switched the safety back on and placed the gun high up on the living room shelf, surging toward Ryland and carrying him away from their father as swiftly as possible. 

“What hurts?” Court demanded urgently, his own injuries so unbelievably unimportant as he ran a soothing hand down Ryland’s back, trying to get his frantic breathing to slow down. “Talk to me, Ry, please!”

Ryland hiccupped a small cry and gestured wordlessly to his side, whimpering only a little when Court crouched down and pulled his shirt up to reveal large patches of bruised red skin where he’d been kicked. His nose was bloody, chin and upper neck smeared with red, and Court was almost sick right there and then. 

He still hadn’t processed what he’d done, but after seeing the damage inflicted on Ryland, he knew he would kill their father all over again in a heartbeat if he had to. 

No child deserved to know this kind of pain. Not from their father, not from anyone. 

“Court?”

Court turned around, Colt’s hand sliding over his shoulder. The twin seemed a little more alert now, but there was a solemn blankness on his face that scared him. Court saw that every morning when he looked in the mirror. 

“It’s over now, right?” Colt asked shakily, looking past him toward the kitchen. If he hadn’t been so busy holding onto Ryland, he would have covered Colt’s eyes. “Dad’s dead?”

Ryland stopped his sniffling, looking at Court expectantly. 

“Yeah,” Court breathed, knees giving out as he sank to the floor, his brothers wrapping him in trembling embraces. “It’s over.”

For them.

For him, this was the beginning of something else. 

The houses on this road were far apart, but not so far that someone couldn’t hear the sound of a gunshot. He needed to get a handle on this before one of their neighbors called in the disturbance. 

Courtland Gentry was running out of time. 

It had never been on his side anyway. 

———

“911, please state the address of your emergency.”

“54566 County Road,” Courtland recited, surprised at how flat and steady his voice was even as his right hand still twitched with the ghost of a tremor. The plastic phone receiver felt so fragile in his grip, so pointless compared to the gun. 

“Do you need police, fire, or EMS?”

His father’s body lay five feet away in the kitchen. Court had patched the twins up as best as he could before setting to work, completing his tasks with a cold precision. This was the last thing. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it couldn’t protect him from the truth. From what he’d done. From what was to come. 

“Police. I just shot my father. He’s dead.”

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead he’s dead he can’t hurt us anymore he’s dead.

A pause. The dispatcher seemed to take a breath. “Sir- how old are you?”

Why the hell does that matter? “Fifteen,” he spat out, words now coming out in a tumble as urgency surged through him. “I put the gun on the front porch and took the bullets out, the door is unlocked and there are no other weapons in the house, just please tell the cops to be careful. There’s-” Court swallowed roughly, bringing his hand up to cover his eyes. “There’s kids here. My two younger brothers. They’re only seven.”

“Are the children injured?”

“Yes, but not by me,” Court said quickly. They needed to know that. Never him. “Our dad was high or drunk or something, he was strangling me and they- they tried to help me. He started hurting them and I thought-” 

His voice caught in his throat as he remembered the sound of Colt’s head hitting the wall. Ryland screaming. Ryland being hurt. 

“Kid, you still there?”

“I thought he was going to kill them,” he told the dispatcher, the words raw and bloody when they emerged. “I shot him to protect them.”

The police would understand that, right? He was just keeping his brothers alive, it was the noble thing to do, the only thing to do-

“Okay, police and EMS are on their way. I need you to stay on the line with me until they arrive, can you do that?”

There was a distant wail from down the hall. Colt. 

He would always be able to tell them apart. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Courtland hung up the phone and went to go hold his brothers, telling himself that this wouldn’t be the last time. 

———

When the red and blue lights shone off the pine trees in the front yard, Courtland pushed the screen door open with his foot, a twin huddled close under each arm. Their frail fingers dug into his forearms with bruising grips, but they could never hurt him. 

The sun was just starting to set, the pines casting long shadows across the house and lawn. He whispered at the boys to look up at the sky, all the colors melding and setting the clouds on fire. It was beautiful. 

They didn’t care. Their eyes never left his face. 

A Lake County police cruiser rumbled down the driveway, pulling to a stop as close to the porch as possible. Behind it, an ambulance. 

Two police officers exited the vehicle, jogging up to the boys as they stepped down from the porch together. The one taking the lead had his hand hovering by his waist, prepared to draw his weapon at any moment if needed. It wouldn’t be. Not now. That was far too late. 

“Where’s the gun, kid?” the officer asked as he approached, suddenly taking note of the twins clinging to Court's arms. His posture changed ever so slightly, hand falling a little more naturally to his side. Court released the breath he’d been holding. 

Where I said it would be, he wanted to shout, but not when he could feel his little brothers trembling against his sides. “On the porch. It’s empty.”

“And the body?”

“Kitchen, straight through,” 

The officer nodded to his partner who quickly stepped around the brothers, clicking his flashlight on and heading into the house. 

“Can the paramedics see them, please?” Court looked between his brothers, their faces a mixture of exhausted, confused, and scared. He did the best he could for them before dialing 911, but he wasn’t a medical professional. If they had internal injuries from their father’s beating, they would need real medical care. “Our- our dad hurt them pretty badly. I tried to take care of them but I-” he swallowed, eyes burning. “I tried.” 

The officer- damn him- genuinely hesitated, arching an eyebrow at Court. He looked like he wanted to question him further, but there was no arguing with the shape the boys were in, their bruised skin and bloody shirts. 

“I’ll bring them over,” the officer said finally, holding out his hands for the twins. “You’ll stay put?”

It took everything in him to not start screaming his head off at the thought of Ryland and Colt being out of his reach for more than a moment. His jaw tensed. This wasn’t about him, though. 

“I’ll stay put,” Court promised, loosening his grip on his brothers. 

They protested profusely and Court worried they would start fighting the officer if he took them away, and eventually it was agreed that Court would help walk them to the ambulance, explaining that the people inside would help take care of them. The back doors were open and when Court was led back to the porch, he could see the twins sitting next to each other on the stretcher while the paramedics looked them over. 

It was as good as it was going to get. 

The second officer soon came back outside, confirming with his partner that there was a body in the kitchen, a male in his forties, dead from a single gunshot wound to the back of the head. 

“What’s your relationship to the victim?” the first officer asked, remaining standing while Courtland took a seat on the steps, exhaustion catching up to him with a vengeance. 

Victim. Court didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up. Maybe both. The adrenaline crash was beginning to show just how unforgiving it was. 

“He’s our father,” Court handed over the worn leather wallet he’d fished from the jacket by the door before coming outside, shoulders drawn in tight. “James Patrick Gentry. Goes by John.”

The second officer accepted the wallet and flipped through it idly, skimming the information on the driver’s license he pinched out. “And the boys?”

“They’re twins. Ryland and Colt Grace. Colt is twelve minutes older.” Colt would throw a fit if he didn’t clarify that point- it was very important to him. Okay, maybe Court was losing the plot a bit, because the officers didn’t really need to know that detail. 

“Grace. Not Gentry?”

“It’s our mom’s last name,” Court gave the simplest explanation, not wanting to get into the fact that this difference in surnames had come about because John had been on a weeklong bender and wasn’t at the hospital to stop this small but beautiful act of rebellion. Her little saving Graces. 

The officer just hummed in understanding. “Where’s your mom?”

Court looked down at his feet. “Astor Park Cemetery.” 

“Oh,” was all he got.

Oh was right. 

“Can you tell us what happened here today?” the second officer crossed his arms, looking down at Court. There was nothing judgmental in his voice, but nothing curious either. It was just a question he had to ask, there was no interest in it beyond that. 

Court wasn’t sure if that would help or hurt his case, but he took a deep breath, explaining everything. He told them about his father’s history, the years of violence, abuse, fear, and anger. He told them about the drinking, the drugs. And finally, he told them why he did what he did. How killing his father was the only way he could keep his brother alive. 

They had to understand that. Right?

There was a burst of static and garbled speech from the cruiser’s radio and the first officer hurried over to respond, engaging in some conversation with the dispatcher. When he returned, his expression was grim, and he motioned for Court to stand. 

“We’re going to have to take you in, son. Put your hands behind your back.” 

Court’s mouth went dry and he stared in shock, heart hammering against his sternum. “What? No!”

He wasn’t a criminal, he’d just done what he needed to do to protect the twins. This wasn’t supposed to end with Court getting arrested, he needed to go with the twins to the hospital and make sure they were okay, and they still hadn’t eaten dinner and there was school tomorrow and their field trip forms- 

“Come on, now,” the man’s voice pulled him from his spiral, Court’s breathing growing faster by the second.  “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”

“But you don’t understand, he was going to kill them!” Court protested, his eyes wide in disbelief as the other officer took hold of his arms, guiding them into position behind his lower back. “I was protecting them, I-”

The cuffs clicked open and were cinched around his bruised wrists, loose, but not enough to wriggle out of. “And we’re going to get that all sorted out down at the station. Not here.”

As if sensing what was wrong, the twins started crying out for him from the ambulance. 

“Court, what’s happening?” Ryland shouted tearily, squirming as one of the paramedics dabbed blood from underneath his chin. Court had missed a spot. “Where are they taking you?”

“You can’t take him!” Colt screeched, striking his fists against the gurney, too tired to run, but not enough to keep from kicking up a fuss. “He didn’t do anything wrong!”

That was debatable. But the last thing Court wanted to do was make this harder on the boys. So much had changed in the course of the day, and he was now understanding that their father’s death was just the beginning of it all. His fight wasn’t over. Not in the slightest. 

“Be good, okay?” Court called out to them as he was led to the police car, shrugging off the hands that tried to steer him away from the ambulance as everything in him wanted to run to the boys until he was dragged away kicking and screaming. He needed to be strong for them, though. That didn’t stop because the monster was dead. “I’ll see you soon, I promise!”

“Watch your head,” one of the officers said, directing him into the back seat of the vehicle. It was a plastic bench with seatbelts. The officer reached to buckle him in and closed the door, joining his partner in the front seat. 

The police car pulled out of the driveway, heading down the dark road away from the house. Court twisted around as much as he was able to look back through the rear windshield.

The ambulance did not follow. 

———

“Can you tell me your full name and date of birth, son?”

This can’t be happening. Those four words had been on an endless loop in his head ever since he arrived at the police station. The seat of the chair he’d been deposited into was worn down and hard and the lights were far too bright for a place with very few windows. His stomach felt like it was about to tear himself apart and when he’d asked for water, a paper cup had been pressed into his hands, now cuffed in front of him. 

A second one had been denied. 

“Are my brothers okay?”

The desk officer, a man named Shaw, glanced up from the paperwork to assess the teenage boy handcuffed in the chair beside him. Clearly, he seemed to conclude that the question came from genuine concern rather than insolence. 

“They’re a little banged up but okay,” the officer told Court, and it sounded like the truth. Maybe it’s just what he wanted to be true. “The one with the missing tooth-”

“Colt.” 

“-he’s gonna have a nasty bump on his head. And the other one-”

“Ryland.”

“Ryland,” Officer Shaw conceded. “He’s got some serious bruising, but the paramedic said it didn’t seem like anything was broken.”

Not for lack of trying, Court thought, his mind showing him exactly how little of his anger John had held back against a seven year old child. His youngest son. His own flesh and blood. 

He wondered where the boys were now, if they’d been taken to the hospital or brought to the station after him. They wouldn’t have been left at home, not without a guardian and all fucking crime scene in the kitchen, and they didn’t have any family nearby. Well, there was an aunt in Jacksonville, maybe, but Court hadn’t seen her in years-

“Name and date of birth?” the officer asked again, clicking his pen. The sound brought Court back and he was suddenly far too aware of the situation he was in. 

He swallowed roughly. “Courtland Grace Gentry, April eighteenth, nineteen-eighty.”

Please, this can’t be happening. 

The police officer paused his writing for a second time, looking Courtland over again, but there was something new in his expression now. “You’re Lyla Grace’s kid, aren’t you?”

Court blinked, his train of thought utterly thrown by the mention of his mother’s name. He would never have thought he’d be hearing it from the mouth of a stranger today, never mind a fucking cop. “Yeah. You knew my mom?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure I did, we went to high school together. You probably don’t remember, but when you were really little your mom used to bring you in to work with her here.”

It sounded true enough. His mother had done whatever odd jobs she could to maintain income for her children and much of that came in the form of short-term work through a temp agency. It wouldn’t be outlandish for one of the places she was assigned to be the police department. If this officer had really gone to high school with her, it also made sense that he more readily knew her by her maiden name, Grace, rather than as Lyla Gentry. 

Court would have given almost everything to have her there with him now. He desperately missed the comforting surety of her embrace, her solid presence. He just wanted his mom.

“I, uh- I was called to your house once, too,” Shaw added, coughing a little awkwardly. “One of your neighbors reported a domestic disturbance and Lyla-” the officer caught himself and stopped, clearing his throat and suddenly becoming very interested in the pen he was using. 

He didn’t need to finish that story. Court could hazard a guess as to what he was going to say next. There had been only a few times while his mother was alive that the police came to the house, and he was pretty sure the man was referring to the time Court had taken the boys for a walk to the river and came back just as the officers were leaving. He remembered rushing up to the house with his heart in his throat, fearful of what he was going to find inside. 

Their father had been nowhere to be seen. Through a crack in the bathroom door, their mother asked Courtland to start preheating the oven for dinner and made him promise not to let the boys see her just yet. 

Months later, he understood that all too well. A backhand armed with a wedding band did some damage. So did a cigarette lighter.

“You’re right,” Court said flatly as he stared down at his cuffed hands on the table, an arch of metal crossing over the burn scar on his wrist. “I don’t remember.”

He cycled through different rooms from there, answering questions, declining the offer to make a phone call, and allowing his injuries to be photographed and documented. At some point, Court learned there was a word for what he’d done. Patricide. 

His sin was a biblical one. Go big or go home. 

They took his fingerprints. It was almost just like in the movies. Eventually, he ended up in a room by himself. 

This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t go to jail, he couldn’t take care of Ryland and Colt from there. His worst fears took on a new form now and he saw himself in prison missing all the big moments of their lives. Fifth grade graduation, high school, learning to drive, first dates- hell, Colt’s first cup of coffee. Ryland’s end-of-term diorama due in four weeks that Court needed to buy supplies for after he got paid. 

He told the twins he would take them to Clearwater when he got his real license in the spring because they both loved the beach. He promised Ryland they’d go to Kennedy Space Center for his birthday in August. Colt wanted to go fishing for his, so Court said they would.

Was he going to be forced to break all those promises?

His face suddenly felt wet and he reached up to touch his cheek, startled, wondering where the blood was coming from. 

But his fingertips came away clear. Damp, but not red. 

Court slowly realized he hadn’t allowed himself to cry for so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like. 

———

The next room he was taken into had plain beige walls and a wilting office plant on the windowsill, the blinds open just enough to show the light coming in from the lamposts in the parking lot. There was another window on the other side of the room, dark and reflective like a mirror. Beneath it, there was a low couch, foam spilling out of some of the seams. 

It wasn’t a cell. They would have removed the cuffs if it was. Cells didn’t have plants or office chairs and a nice table or shitty couches. 

And the middle-aged woman taking the seat across from him definitely wasn’t a cop. 

“Hi, Courtland, my name’s Maura,” the woman introduced herself with a light smile, pulling her cardigan tighter as she sat. Court didn’t blame her, it was cold in there. “I’m a social worker.”

“I don’t need a social worker,” Court said, turning his eyes down to the table, quickly losing interest. He’d been in the police station for hours now and understood that he’d been charged with a serious crime, but it took being told that he would need to be detained overnight until the prosecutor returned to his office in the morning to decide on pursuing it to realize how incredibly fucked he was. “I need a lawyer.”

“And they’re working on getting you one,” Maura assured him, which was news to Court. She waited patiently to see if he had any response before continuing. “I know you’re probably scared right now. There are a lot of serious things happening around you, but I’m here to try and help you and your brothers get through this as best as I can.”

At the mention of Ryland and Colt, Court’s full attention was on the social worker now, and it was clear that she knew it. 

“I want to see them,” Court said firmly, dragging a sleeve across his eyes to wipe away the rest of his tears from before. His skin was itching and he was so hungry and thirsty, but all of that could wait now. “Are they here? Are they okay?”

“Yes, EMS cleared them medically. They were just finishing having some snacks in the break room. An officer is watching them now,” the social worker gave him a reassuring smile, but it soon faltered. That was when Court realized she was no longer meeting his eyes, her focus now drawn by the handprint around his throat that had been photographed earlier with a ruler held in front of it to show the size. His skin prickled with self consciousness under her scrutiny and he tugged the collar of his jacket closer to cover it. 

To her credit, she recovered quickly. “They’re both very anxious to see you, Courtland.”

A noise of disbelief caught in his throat. Did he finally get to see them now? Was this a trick? 

“Why don’t you take a seat on the couch?” she suggested, and he quickly moved to comply, watching carefully as she went to open the door across the room. 

All it took was a turn of the handle before Ryland and Colt were spilling into the room, making a beeline for their older brother.

“Court!” Their overlapping voices cried and Court found himself suddenly buried under the two boys as they hastily climbed onto the couch with him, burying themselves against his chest like they’d never been apart to begin with. They looked to be in slightly better condition than when he left them with the paramedics and had clean clothes- their own. Their small bodies were warm and reassuring and even while his hands were cuffed, they figured out a way for his arms to loop around them. 

Court couldn’t help it. He buried his face atop the twins’ heads and began to cry. 

He couldn’t remember the last time either of them had seen him cry, but they seemed to know what to do. Ryland and Colt held him quietly, bearing with him even as his shoulders shook violently with the force of his sobs. He was definitely getting his tears on their shirts, but if they minded, they didn’t say anything about it, instead speaking in soft tones that only made him cry harder. 

“I’m so glad you’re alive, Court,” Colt told him with a light sniffle, grabbing onto his jacket. 

“Me too,” Ryland whispered into his neck, a parody of how he’d been held by Court that morning. Christ, that had only been this morning. It felt like another lifetime ago now. “You- you saved me, Court.” 

Court closed his eyes and held the boys tighter. They smelled like hand soap and and laundry detergent. Clean, but not unscathed. He was glad he was alive, too. Otherwise they might not be either. 

Maybe their lives would always be intertwined this way. 

“Whatever happens next, I need you both to know how much I love you,” Courtland said once he could finally put words together again, the last of his tears landing on Colt’s shoulder. Little Lightning Colt. He was going to grow up into such a beautiful troublemaker. And Ryland, his brilliant saving grace who wore his heart on his sleeve. Court couldn’t even fathom the things that kid might do with his life. “I love you so much and I’m so sorry about what happened with Dad, but no matter what other people say about me you have to know I did it to keep you safe. Because I love you. I love you so much it hurts, okay?”

Ryland shook his head, his hair tickling Court’s bruised throat. “Doesn’t hurt.”

Court swallowed back another sob. “What?”

“Doesn’t hurt,” Ryland corrected, sitting up just enough to look into his older brother’s eyes like his entire world rested within them. “Love doesn’t hurt. We love you so much and it doesn’t hurt.”

Colt nodded in agreement. “He’s right.”

Of course Ryland was right. He usually was when he made his mind up about something. 

Court didn’t know what he’d done in this life or any other to deserve these wonderful kids as his brothers. 

“I love you both so much it doesn’t hurt,” he corrected, heart twisting in his chest. It was the biggest thing he could leave them with. 

Court was so grateful for this moment with them. It had been killing him to not know where they were or how they were doing, but they seemed to be getting taken care of just fine, especially considering their injuries. He wondered if he could ask Maura to get them both to a hospital anyway, just to be on the safe side. 

The door opened and an officer stepped into the room, looking expectantly at the social worker. 

He knew what that meant. They were out of time. 

“I need to ask your brother some questions now, boys,” Maura said sweetly, looking unfairly regretful for someone who was calling the shots. “Officer Ortiz is going to take you just down the hall so you can get some sleep, okay?”

Had it been at any point earlier, Court would have fought tooth and nail to keep them from being separated a second time. But honestly, they were all tired, and the fight gone from them at this late hour. The twins nodded reluctantly, accepting Maura’s hands as they clambered unsteadily off the couch, glancing back at their brother before obediently following the cop down the hallway. The door shut. 

Court collapsed against the back of the couch, his head buzzing with messy emotions and unspoken words. He might cry again.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. Maura hummed in acknowledgement, pulling a chair over to sit closer to him.

"Can I get you anything?” the woman asked, keeping a polite distance. Her sincerity drew an honest answer from Court and she left him for a few minutes, returning with a bag of chips and packaged cookies that looked like they’d come from the vending machine by the building’s main entrance. There was a can of ginger ale in her pocket. 

Yeah, he was definitely going to cry again. 

Court ate slowly, feeling no need to rush with someone like Maura who seemed so endlessly patient and strangely the only adult he felt was acting rationally here. The questions she asked were open and curious, and he found himself easily sharing more with her than he had with the officers. Maybe she would just turn right around and tell them everything he said, but he found he didn’t mind all that much. 

Eventually, though, she came in with the million-dollar question.

“Do you have any family nearby that can help take care of Ryland and Colt while this gets figured out?” Maura asked, throwing away the food wrappers for him. There was something distantly motherly about the action, like it was a habit for her. Maybe it was. She was probably old enough to be someone’s mother. “Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?”

This was what Court had been afraid of all these years. When it came down to alternative living situations, their options were slim to none. 

“Our mom had a sister who used to come visit when we lived in Jacksonville. I’m pretty sure she lived there, too. I don’t know, it was so long ago,” Court pressed his face to his hands, his neck burning with embarrassment. That aunt was their best shot at keeping the boys together under one roof, not to mention the fact that she was the last tie to their mother that he knew of, and he couldn’t even tell this social worker what city she lived in. He barely remembered what she looked like. 

Maura pursed her lips and it seemed like she was hiding a frown. “Was her name Linda Demsky, by chance? Or maybe you just knew her as Linda Grace?”

A dangerous flicker of hope sparked under his collarbones and he nodded. Demsky. He knew that name. That was right, Aunt Linda was married, he had an uncle- Dan or Dave or something, he’d met him at his mother’s funeral- 

“I’m so sorry, Court,” Maura said, and Court felt that spark snuff right out just from the look on her face. “Linda and David Demsky passed away in a car accident in Nocatee two years ago.” 

Well, fuck. 

“You’re sure these are the right people?” Court asked, feeling desperate now that hope had just been within reach. “Maybe I got the names wrong.”

The woman shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Court. We checked.”

Court released a shaky breath, uncovering his face. “So, what happens now?”

“We’ll know more in the morning. I’m sorry.” Maura was nice, but he was getting sick of her apologizing. 

A knock sounded at the door and Officer Ortiz returned, this time sliding the door all the way open and kicking the stopper down so it stayed there. The police officer must have said something, and Court wasn’t sure what he said back because he was panicking now, but it must not have been good because a second officer was called in to escort him to his cell for the night. 

“I have money for the twins hidden in a floorboard by my bed,” Court told Maura urgently as strong arms pulled him to his feet, wracking his brain for all the important things he needed to tell the one adult who had really listened to him throughout this whole ordeal. There was too much to say and too little time. “Our neighbor to our right will buy the trucks, Ryland is allergic to cantaloupe, Colt needs to be distracted with music when he gets his shots or he’ll kick the doctor, I’ve seen it happen, hey- let me go!”

The officer he’d torn himself away from was rougher in grabbing him the second time, hauling him out into the hallway, Maura close behind. Why wasn’t she stopping this, why-

The social worker paused in the middle of the hallway, a torn look crossing the older woman’s face. “Can I give you some advice, Courtland?” 

He looked up at her but his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth, no words able to escape him now. The cops didn’t seem to like it, but they kept still, letting the woman speak. 

“Fight this,” she told him, nodding once in the direction Ryland and Colt had been taken. “For them.”

So that was the point of this all, then. To remind Court that he still had his meaning. Something worth fighting for. 

He would try. 

He would never stop fighting for them. To get back to them. 

He would try. 

———

“All rise,” the bailiff announced. “Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Kenneth Laine presiding. Indictment number 95-0661, The State of Florida v. Courtland Gentry.” 

———

“You want some gum?”