He disappears out the front door.
“I’m going to call the police,” I stammer.
“Good idea,” Mom says.
“He’ll be somewhere asleep, Claire,” my dad reassures me. “Just give it another hour.”
“He’s here,” Tristan calls.
“What?” I stammer as I run out onto the porch.
Tristan points, and we see Harrison pushing his bike up the street. It looks like it has a flat tire or something. He’s dirty and wet and has a backpack on his back. He looks like he’s been through a war.
I drop my head in relief, and then a sudden surge of anger rages through me like a rapid. I march down the front yard until I get to him. “Where have you been?” I cry.
He rolls his eyes.
“Why weren’t you answering your phone?”
“I lost it,” he barks with attitude.
“Where were you?”
“Out!” he yells.
“You . . . selfish little shit.” Something snaps inside of me. “You are grounded!” I scream as I lose all of my control. “Get in that house, and do not come out of your bedroom ever again,” I cry. I push his back to try to make him get there faster. At least when he’s in there, I know he’s safe. I can protect him from himself.
“Typical,” he mutters under his breath as he storms past me.
“Harrison Anderson, you are in so much trouble!” I yell after him. “You’ve lost it—the phone, the internet. Every damn thing you own . . . is gone.”
“I hate you.” He storms inside and marches up the stairs. “I hate you all!” he yells. His bedroom door slams shut.
Tears roll down my face, and I’m shaking in anger. I am furious . . . beyond furious.
Fuming.
“We’ll get going, love.” Mom smiles sadly as she rubs my arm. “Glad he’s home safe. Good luck.” They turn to Tristan. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” He forces a smile, and they leave.
I begin to pace back and forth while I wring my hands. “What am I going to do with this fucking kid, Tristan?” I cry. “He’s out of control and doesn’t even care.”
Tristan exhales heavily. “I’ll go call Fletcher, let him know he’s here.” He disappears out the front door.
Tristan
I dial Fletcher’s number. “Hey, Tris.”
“Hey, buddy, he’s home,” I say.
“Are you kidding me?” he growls. “I’ve been riding around all night looking for him. I’m going to kill him.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks. Hey . . . your mom is freaking out. Can you come home?”
“On my way.”
I hang up, exhale heavily, and look out over the street. Where was he? I glance down and see his dirty backpack dumped next to the door, and I pick it up and go through it. Everything is sopping wet. Where the fuck was he? Did it rain here overnight? A sweater, a bottle of water, some wrappers from chocolate. I undo the zipper of the side pocket and pull out a crumpled, wet packet of cigars.