Crackling leaves filtered the cool wind. I stared into the forest as though it was a tunnel that sucked my psyche in with it. The fireflies swam through the campground like stars against the black sky. “Did you hear about Mr. Baker?” My mother broke the silence as she re-joined the campfire. The apples of her cheeks were tinged red from the gin currently circulating in her bloodstream.

Shaking our heads, she continued, “Apparently he’s been seen looking a little…chummy with Diane from the town council?”

Finishing off his beer, my dad queried, “Diane?”

She mimed as she answered his question, “Red, short hair? Brown glasses? Always wears those loud shirts?”

I saw Evelyn mock her out of the corner of her eye with a fake shocked face.

My dad nodded before cracking open a new beer. The smell of grapefruit or pine needles. His eyes were sleepy, the rest of him leaning back in his chair in a position of contentment, “Oh yeah, there’s that one with the huge pineapples. It’s a pretty nice shirt.”

“Agreed.” Evelyn said as she shoved another smore’s in her mouth. “Can I get one of those you think?”

“I don’t think they sell them in Bedlam hun.” My mom shook her head, “I looked into getting one for Mark, for his birthday.” A fact that didn’t surprise me, Bedlam was composed of one bakery, one grocery store, one clothing store and a gas station and very little else. But I liked the compact size, it had been easy to memorize. Like a grid in my mind I knew where every little thing in Bedlam resided.

Where every mail box sat along the few paved streets. Where they’d built small bird houses in the empty field on the East side of town. Everything was easy to map out.

“His birthday isn’t until February.” My dad corrected as he took another drink. Which only served to confuse me because I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him even ask a single question about Mark.

Scrunching and twitching my nose, I sniffled a couple times. A rush of tingles appearing down my back. “Is your back itchy?” Evie asked, looking over at me.

I nodded quickly before she pressed her nails against my back and scratched along my spine. I’m not sure why the sniffles suddenly appeared at the same time my back became itchy. “Thanks.” I exhaled, “That’s better.”

The fire crackled into the open air. “Your debt can only be paid by handing me the marshmallow bag.”

“I should’ve known.” I faked exasperation before reaching over and grabbing the crinkling bag before throwing it to her.

The goupy marshmallow slipped away from the metal pole and into the reaching fire below, “Shit.” Momentarily the flames rose so they could swallow the marshmallow whole.

“Evelyn Marie Curie! No swearing.”

“Sorry ma.” But she still had on her signature conniving smile as always.

It was peaceful for moments thereafter: a fact that made my nerves slip into a flurry.

My gaze switched to the woods once more. The sound of its echoing voice crackled within me like the fire. It threatened to spark the longer I stared at the bark and moss feet before me.

“Rory?” A faraway voice pulled me back and I found the expectant face of my mother.

Shaking off the weight on my chest, “What? Sorry.” I tacked on sheepishly.

“I asked how school was going. You must like your science class right?” I knew what she was trying to poke at. My lack of friends. I never brought people back home like Evelyn did.

“Yes-yes I do, Mr. Ayaz is a really good teacher. We’re talking about the structure of cells right now.” However I didn’t add anything about whom had added himself, no matter how unwanted he might be, into the spot next to me. And no matter how many times I’ve tried to say no, he still comes back.

Everyone in town and at school acts like Elias Alvara is the devil reincarnated, but in reality, he’s more like a pest.

A notification buzzs through my pocket. Grabbing my phone, I look down, only to have my stomach twist like a hurricane.

Speak of the Devil.

Dead yet golden boy? As arrogant as always, I rolled my eyes.

Instead of responding, I shoved my phone back into my pocket unceremoniously and ignored the weight it had developed now. I look over at my family as they sit to my right. The firelight dances illumination over their faces. I can see the beauty mark on Evelyn’s face, as it sits above her lip. I see my father’s black, dark circles and bushy eyebrows. I can’t think of a time where he didn’t have his signature dark circles. The small white scar on my mom’s forehead peeks out from her hairline.

She’d recited the story so many times that it had become ingrained in my head. The tree that she had climbed, gripping the harsh branches and taking small steps as she tried to ascend to the top of the oak tree in hopes of seeing everything she could across her small Iowan town. The rooftops, the backyards, the world - or so she thought - because she got three steps up before falling onto a rock and getting a concussion.

As a child, I remember hearing that story for the first time. The soft cadence of her voice as she told it because Evelyn and I had tried to do the same thing as her.