I’m making a fucking stallion.

  When I was thirteen or so, my uncle Ray taught me how to weld. I haven’t done it all that much. Don’t ask me to mend a bridge or fix a ship. But make an abstract metal horse? That I can do.

  And that’s what I’m doing. A body banged out from a rusty, holey bucket; legs from old bike cranks; a tail and mane made of spokes; a funnel for a neck; and a head from this horseshoe. But twisted to look all horsey.

  I’m bending and pounding and welding and it’s coming together. The sugarhouse is heating up like we’re sugaring and I’m sweating and, let me tell you, this thing could be really good. Who knows? Maybe my masterpiece.

  I lose track of time and Dad busts in without me noticing.

  “Working hard?” he says, trying to peek over my shoulder.

  “Something like that,” I say, and I set the horseshoe in my lap. I haven’t had time to bend it and shape it into the head yet.

  He gets a good look at what I’ve finished and asks, “Lion?”

  “Horse,” I say.

  He nods.

  In the nod, I can see so much. He supports me, but he’s jealous too. He wants to give me everything that he can give me, but he’s kinda pissed off that I don’t have to take the path he did. Not that he fought in wars or worked in a factory or any of that shit. From what I know, he never wanted to be anything other than what he became. This family has always been in the sugaring business and I’m the first one who wants out. And he’s okay with that, except when he isn’t.

  You might not believe I can see all that in a nod, but I can. He’s been nodding like that for years.

  “Mom made pork loin,” he says. “Teriyaki.”

  “Nice,” I say. “Gimme a couple minutes to get cleaned up.”

  He should leave, but he doesn’t. He hangs out in the doorway as I roll up an extension cord. “Everything cool?” he asks when I stop and give him the stink eye.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Something in your voice. You seem agitated. Or, more agitated than normal.”

  “I’m agitated in general, then?”

  He pats his chest. “You’re my son. It comes with the blood.”

  Dad had a small heart attack last year because of high blood pressure and he jokes about it more than he does anything helpful about it. Still covers his food with salt and works way too long and hard.

  “I guess it’s school,” I say. “Fucking useless these days.”

  “Be cool, son,” he says, and then he laughs. “Be cool. Stay in school.”

  “Yeah, it’d be just like me to drop out a few months before graduating.”

  Dad steps forward and puts an arm around me. He kisses my head like he’s been doing since I can remember. I hated it during middle school, but these days I tolerate it as much as I tolerate anything he does. I might even appreciate it sometimes. Not that I’d tell him.

  “You’ll get your diploma,” he says as he shoves me away to show me that he’s still the stronger one in the room. “Then you’ll go to New York City and hang out in Greenwich Village with all the other artists.”

  “Artists can’t afford to live in Greenwich Village,” I tell him. “Most can’t even afford Brooklyn anymore.”

  “Did I tell you about when I went to Greenwich Village about twenty years ago?” he says, and his eyes light up. “There was a dude with a cat on his head. He was walking around. A cat, just sittin’ on his head. You would’ve lost your mind.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Not much surprises me these days.”

  “Well, it was funny in any case. I want you to know that if things are getting you down, just remember, you got talent. More than any kid in this town. You don’t have to resort to nonsense to get attention. I mean look at that . . . thing. It’s gonna be a horse, right?”

  The basic shape is there but, yeah, it’s probably hard to picture at the moment. “The head isn’t ready yet,” I tell him, and I hold up the horseshoe. “Making it out of this.”

  “You always liked to do things backward,” he says with a smile. “And you always were attracted to the disturbing shit.”

  Even unfinished, it’s probably the best piece I’ve ever done. It stirs a feeling in me that I can’t quite get ahold of. But disturbing?

  “You think it’s disturbing?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Life is disturbing.”

  As soon as he says that, I think of Cole’s body. In a puddle. Dead. Puke-covered. Animal.

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask.

  “Cat-head dude,” he says. And he laughs.

  “Come on. You got me curious. What do you find disturbing in life?”

  He scratches at his bushy sideburns and takes a deep breath. I have a pretty good guess what he’s going to talk about. Seeing his dad die in this very same sugarhouse we’re standing in now. Back when Dad was about my age and Grandpa was his age. You guessed it: heart attack.

  But instead he says, “When you dig deep and find out why things are the way they are, you always find dark shit, right? Never a happy story, or what you expect. Even things in life that seem harmless have a much more sordid history than we could ever imagine. Like, you know, that horseshoe.”

  “This one?” I say, holding it up again. It’s almost weightless. So insignificant, basically nothing.

  “Horseshoes in general. You do know why people hang them above doors, don’t you?”

  “It’s good luck,” I say.

  “But why’s it good luck?”

  “I don’t know. Just is.”

  “Just is, huh?” Dad says, and he winks at me. “It never just is. There’s always a story behind things, but the stories get buried. Written over. Forgotten.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “I’ve never told you this one?”

  The stories he usually tells are the ones about my uncle Ray—which involve beer or girls or, usually, both—but I’ve never heard one about a horseshoe. Maybe he told my sister, or my brother, but never me.

  “Enlighten me, Old Man,” I say.

  He pulls up his pants by the belt loops because they’re always sagging and he won’t buy the right waist size or wear a belt. Then he takes a seat.

  “Well,” he says, and he clears his throat. “There’s this old legend, right? All about a blacksmith. One morning the devil—Satan himself, you know?—goes into this blacksmith’s shop. He’s not in disguise. He’s got the head of a man but with horns poking out from his wooly hair. He’s wearing a red coat. His legs are goat legs and his feet are cloven. ‘Feels like I’ve been walking for an eternity,’ the devil says, flashing his bright teeth. ‘And now my hooves are killing me. I’ve heard you can help.’”

  Dad has always been a good storyteller. That’s because he enjoys it. And I can tell he’s really enjoying this story, getting into character for the dialogue, hamming it up.

  “The blacksmith is a religious man, and he’s no idiot,” Dad goes on. “He recognizes the devil right off the bat and decides to take a righteous risk. ‘I have the exact thing you need,’ the blacksmith says, and he ducks into the back of his shop. He returns with his prized possession, a pair of horseshoes forged from pure gold.”

  “Seems like a waste of perfectly good gold,” I say. “Cash that shit in and buy a wagon, ya dumbass blacksmith.”

  “Ah, but the horseshoes would prove to be much more valuable than that,” Dad says. “You see, the devil’s beady eyes light up when he sees those beauties, ’cause we all know the devil is the vainest of creatures.

  “‘I must have them,’ the devil says.

  “‘You may not like how I put them on,’ the blacksmith tells him.

  “‘Whatever it takes,’ the devil says. ‘As long as shoes so beautiful exist, then they must be mine. No one except me must wear them.’

  “‘Fine,’ the blacksmith says. ‘To get to your hooves, I’m gonna have to tie your legs and hang you upside down.’

  “The devil agrees, because along with tons of vanity, he’s got way too much confidence. He never believes that harm will come his way. You see, the devil is immortal. But just because he’s immortal, it doesn’t mean he’s immune to pain.

  “And so the blacksmith ties the devil’s legs, hoists him in the air, and turns him upside down. The devil is completely helpless, and the blacksmith goes to work. He places the gold horseshoes on the devil’s hooves.

  “‘Oh,’ the devil moans in pleasure. ‘Wonderful.’

  “The pleasure doesn’t last long, though. While the devil is distracted, the blacksmith pulls out a long, sharp nail that he’s been heating in the fire and he drives it into one of the devil’s hooves. Bam!

  “‘Yaowww!’ the devil howls, because the nail goes so deep that it pierces his flesh and bone.

  “The blacksmith doesn’t stop. He drives another. Bam!

  “‘Yaowww!’

  “And another. Bam!

  “‘Yaowww!’

  “And the blacksmith keeps driving in the nails and the only thing the devil can do is scream and squirm and endure the pain.

  “‘I will keep doing this, until the day I die, because you, sir, are the devil and you deserve to suffer for the evil you have put upon this earth!’ the blacksmith hollers.

  “The devil catches his breath, grits his teeth, and says in as calm a voice as he can muster, ‘But you, stupid blacksmith, will indeed die someday and I, most definitely, will not. And when you do, I will find my way down from here and I will utterly destroy your family.’

  “The blacksmith hadn’t considered this. He loves his family more than anything and can’t imagine them suffering because of his choices. He decides to make a deal, for as vain and confident as the devil is, he is also known to keep his word.

  “‘I will show you mercy,’ the blacksmith says, ‘and let you down, so long as you make me a promise.’

  “‘Until I hear it,’ the devil says, ‘I make no promises.’

  “‘I will let you down if you vow to never harm nor bother a blacksmith or a blacksmith’s family ever again,’ the blacksmith says, holding another nail in the air, threatening to plunge it into the devil’s hoof.

  “The devil sighs and says, ‘It’s a reasonable request. But what if I’m in search of souls, and I come upon a house? How am I to know a blacksmith lives there?’

  “The blacksmith removes the nails from the devil’s hooves until he is able to free the golden horseshoes. He carries one to the front of the shop, opens the door, and steps outside. He nails the horseshoe above the door and comes back to inform the devil, ‘I will tell all the blacksmiths to nail a horseshoe above their door, and when you see it, you will know never to pass through.’

  “‘All right,’ the devil says. ‘I can agree to that.’

  “The blacksmith shakes the devil’s hand to seal the deal and then grabs the rope to lower him down, but before he does, the blacksmith says, ‘Oh and one more thing. You’re not getting any of my damn horseshoes.’”

  Dad stops talking and puts his hands out like ta-da!

  It’s a good story, no doubt. And I say, “And that’s why people hang horseshoes above their doors.”

  “So it goes, so it goes,” Dad says.

  Obviously, it’s not a true story. Sure, I believe in God and all that, maybe even the devil, because how can you have something so good without something so bad? But I know the devil isn’t strolling around, twirling a cane or whatever.

  “So now that I’ve whet your appetite with tales of devil torture, it’s time for dinner,” he says. “Or you can stay out here and work. It’s a hell of thing you got there, Gray.”

  I’m suddenly super anxious. I’m not hungry, but I don’t want to be alone.

  “Let’s go inside,” I say as I fish my phone from the mesh bag that hangs from a nail in the wall above the workbench. Before I pocket it, I notice there’s a text from Meeka.

  So? Gus?

  HOLLY

  MY BROTHERS ARE UP IN THEIR ROOMS, playing video games. Dad is in his workshop, turning wooden bowls with a lathe, which is something he does to “relax.” Mom is going for one of her late-evening jogs, all clad in orange reflective gear and a headlamp. I’m back in the basement, back in Mom’s comfy chair, laptop poised at the edge of my knees.

  I didn’t want to look at the pic on my phone, in case it had spyware or a virus attached to it. But I’m willing to sacrifice the laptop, and I’m willing to use our Wi-Fi because I don’t have time to go somewhere else. I need to see this now. The risk versus reward is leaning heavily toward reward.

  I click it and . . .

  It’s another meme. It’s a picture of that blond actress from the movie Mean Girls. The meanest of the mean girls. Regina George, I think. The caption reads:

  LIKE, WHY ARE YOU

  SO OBSESSED WITH ME?

  Jesus. What is it with this person? Do they think I’m not serious?

  I need to respond. Since they seem to get off on this little meme game, I go to MemeMonster.com. I search for OWL memes.

  There are hundreds of pics to choose from. I go with one called INQUISITIVE OWL, which is a cute little bird with a tilted head, and I enter my text:

  HOO

  R U

  REEEEELY?

  I download it. I DM it.

  But a moment later I’m regretting it. Owls are predators, though adorable ones don’t exactly convey a serious violent threat. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can take the message back. All I can do is wait.

  My cursor is poised over the notifications, and I click.

  Click, refresh. Click, refresh. Click, refresh. Click, refresh. Click—

  Thedlom is either on Twitter or has notifications enabled. Because a response comes after only a minute or two.

  It’s a picture of two hands. One is holding a blue pill, the other is holding a red pill.

  The text says above the blue pill says: Find out who I am . . .

  The text says above the red pill says: Find out who I reeeely am.

  Okay, okay, okay.

  This is a meme that self-inflated assholes use. It’s basically about taking a philosophical stance. People who choose the blue pill—and that’s apparently most people—choose not to see the world for what it truly is. They prefer to live in comfortable ignorance. But people who choose the red pill are willing to confront the often ugly and corrupt reality of the world.

  I’m obviously choosing the red pill, even though I’m not sure what that will entail. Perhaps it’s a trap, but what do I have to lose?

  I send back a pic that is just red. All red, red, red.

  And I wait. Refresh, refresh, infinite refresh. Until . . .

  A disappointing response.

  The screen lights up with a picture of Neil Patrick Harris in a suit. It says:

  WAIT FOR IT . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  The light from Cole’s phone was cast across our faces as we all looked down at a picture of him and Meeka. Embracing. Like they were in love.

  They weren’t in love. At least Meeka wasn’t. Not even when that picture was taken.

  “You stole this from me,” Cole said to us. The phone was lit for another second or two, then the screen went black.

  We were in the woods behind Meeka’s house. But Meeka wasn’t there. She and her parents were at the Cape, a vacation planned at the last minute. Probably to dodge Cole, who had not been handling the breakup well.

  As for why we were all there, Cole had invited us, saying, “Meet me at the bend in Meeka’s stone wall and we’ll talk about what comes next.” Like fools, we all went. Logan, and Grayson, and I, standing there, staring at this pathetic and vengeful man.

  “We didn’t steal anything from you,” I said. “You lost it.”

  “So I’m a loser, huh?” Cole asked.

  “That’s not what she said,” Logan answered.

  “It’s exactly what she said,” Cole told him. “But it’s wrong. Mark my words. This isn’t ending quietly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Grayson asked. “Is that a threat?”

  “No, that’s a prophecy,” Cole answered. “And there’s no way to stop it.”

  “Prophecy of what exactly?” Logan asked.

  Cole set the phone down next to him on the stone wall where he was sitting. “Of who the winner will be.”

  “It didn’t work out with Meeka,” Logan said. “You have to accept that.”

  “I have accepted it,” Cole said.

  “By inviting us out to where Meeka fuckin’ lives . . . and then what?” Grayson barked. “Threatening her? Threatening us?”

  Cole shifted his weight on the wall. Some pebbles cascaded down, making the sound of a rainstick. “You think I’m threatening Meeka?”

  Of course we did, but it was best to be careful with our words. Cole was already eighteen. He could buy guns easier than he could buy liquor. And he had no trouble buying liquor.

  “We want everyone to move on with their lives,” I replied.

  “Do we, now?” Cole said. “Because do you know what I’ll be moving on with? What my life is?”

  “You’re a white man living in America,” I said. “It means you’ve got it pretty darn good.”

  “And recognizing that privilege is the first step toward improving your life,” Logan added.

  Cole tore at some moss on the wall. He tossed it to the ground as he said, “Fuck you, Logan. And fuck you too, Holly. You think I got it pretty darn good, huh? But you would never change places with me, would you? Not in a million years.”

  I started to say, “Your heart is broken and—”