THE LAST BELL

Briar Glen, Tennessee — October 2009

The first time Elijah Mercer realized that grown-ups could lie, he was eight years old.

It was a Tuesday.

Rain had been falling over Briar Glen, Tennessee, since early that morning, turning the dirt driveway outside the Mercer family home into a muddy mess. The gutters leaked. The front porch sagged slightly to the left. Inside, the television flickered between a local news station and static.

Eli sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, wearing a faded blue T-shirt and pajama pants covered in cartoon dinosaurs.

He was waiting for his father.

Daniel Mercer had promised to take him fishing that afternoon.

It was supposed to be their day.

Just the two of them.

No work. No errands. No excuses.

Eli had even packed his little tackle box the night before, carefully arranging the hooks and bobbers the way his grandfather had taught him.

At 4:15, he looked toward the window.

At 4:30, he checked the clock.

At 5:00, he asked his mother when Daddy was coming home.

Sarah Mercer stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes. She was thirty-one years old, with tired brown eyes, dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, and the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix.

“Soon, baby,” she answered.

Eli frowned.

“You said that an hour ago.”

“I know.”

“He promised.”

Sarah stopped scrubbing the plate.

For a moment, she stared out the kitchen window at the rain.

Then she turned around and forced a smile.

“Sometimes things happen, sweetheart.”

“Like what?”

“Work things.”

“Daddy doesn't work on Tuesdays.”

Sarah didn't answer.

Eli looked back toward the window.

“Maybe his truck broke down.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe he got stuck in traffic.”

“Could be.”

“Or maybe he caught a really big fish and forgot to come get me.”

Sarah laughed softly.

“Your daddy would certainly love that.”

Eli smiled.

He liked making his mother laugh.

Lately, she hadn't been doing much of it.

The clock reached six.

Then seven.

By eight o'clock, Eli had fallen asleep on the couch, still wearing his little fishing vest.

Daniel Mercer never came home.

And three days later, Sarah found a note on the kitchen counter.

It contained eleven words.

I'm sorry. I can't keep doing this. Please don't call me.

No explanation.

No goodbye to his son.

Nothing.

Sarah read the note three times before sitting down at the kitchen table.

She didn't cry immediately.

First, she laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

Because sometimes life becomes so cruel that laughter is the only thing keeping a person from falling apart.

Then she looked at the empty space where Daniel's truck keys usually sat.

And she cried.

Quietly.

Because her little boy was sleeping in the next room.

And she had no idea how she was going to tell him that his father was gone.

The House on Willow Street

The Mercer family lived at 114 Willow Street, in a neighborhood where everybody knew everybody and nobody had enough money to mind their own business.

Their house had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a narrow kitchen, and a living room barely large enough for the couch Sarah had purchased secondhand.

During the summer, the air conditioner worked whenever it felt like it.

During the winter, they put towels beneath the doors to keep out the cold.

The refrigerator made a terrible rattling noise.

And the floorboards in Eli's bedroom creaked so loudly that sneaking around after bedtime was practically impossible.

But it was home.

Before Daniel left, Eli had believed they were happy.

He remembered Saturday mornings when his father made pancakes shaped like animals.

He remembered sitting on Daniel's shoulders at the county fair.

He remembered wrestling on the living room carpet while his mother shouted at them to stop before somebody broke the coffee table.

Those memories confused him now.

Because if his father loved him enough to do all those things, why hadn't he loved him enough to stay?

He asked his mother that question one night.

Sarah was folding laundry on the couch when Eli walked into the room.

“Momma?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

He stood in front of her, rubbing his hands together.

“Did Daddy leave because of me?”

Sarah immediately put down the shirt she was folding.

“What?”

“Because I broke his fishing rod.”

“Eli—”

“And I lied about it.”

She reached for him.

“Come here.”

He climbed onto the couch beside her.

“Listen to me, Elijah James Mercer.”

Whenever she used his full name, he knew she was serious.

“You did not make your father leave.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

She brushed his hair away from his forehead.

“Your daddy made a decision. A grown-up decision. And it was a selfish one.”

“Does he still love me?”

Sarah's expression changed.

It was the question she'd been dreading.

She wanted to tell him yes.

She wanted to promise Daniel would come back.

She wanted to say anything that would make the sadness disappear from her son's face.

But she had already spent too much of her marriage making excuses for a man who never kept his promises.

“I don't know what's in your daddy's heart,” she finally whispered. “But I know what's in mine.”

Eli looked at her.

“And what's that?”

“You.”

She kissed his forehead.

“Every bit of it.”

He wrapped his arms around her.

Sarah held him until his breathing slowed.

Then he asked another question.

“Are we gonna be okay?”

Sarah looked at the overdue bills stacked on the coffee table.

The electricity bill.

The water bill.

The mortgage notice.

Her checking account had seventy-three dollars in it.

She was working mornings at a diner and cleaning rooms at a roadside motel three nights a week.

Her feet hurt constantly.

Her back ached.

And some nights she lay awake wondering whether she was going to lose the house.

But she looked at her son and smiled.

“Yeah, baby.”

She pulled him closer.

“We're gonna be okay.”

And for the first time since Daniel left, Eli believed her.

Not because he understood how.

But because his mother had never given him a reason not to.

The Boy Who Loved Wrestling

Eli's grandfather, Thomas Mercer, had introduced him to professional wrestling when he was five years old.

Thomas was a retired mechanic with a thick gray mustache, an enormous belly, and a laugh that could be heard from three rooms away.

Every Saturday evening, Eli would sit beside him in his old recliner while they watched wrestling on television.

Thomas loved the villains.

The louder, meaner, and more ridiculous they were, the more he enjoyed them.

Eli loved the heroes.

Especially one man.

“Thunder” Jack Callahan.

Thunder Jack was everything Eli believed a hero should be.

He was strong.

He was brave.

He stood up for people who couldn't defend themselves.

And no matter how badly the bad guys beat him, he always seemed to find a way back to his feet.

His entrance music began with the sound of thunder.

He wore red-and-white wrestling trunks, white boots, and a leather jacket with a lightning bolt across the back.

Whenever he raised his right fist, the crowd raised theirs.

Eli practiced that pose in the bathroom mirror.

He practiced Thunder Jack's entrance.

He practiced his championship celebration.

Once, he jumped from the couch onto a pile of pillows and accidentally landed on the family dog.

The dog was fine.

The lamp wasn't.

Sarah banned wrestling in the living room for two weeks.

Thomas thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

“Boy's got potential!” he announced.

Sarah pointed at him.

“Don't encourage him, Daddy.”

Thomas grinned.

“I'm just saying, that elbow drop looked pretty good.”

“HE BROKE MY LAMP!”

“Champions make sacrifices, Sarah.”

She threw a dish towel at him.

Eli laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

Those were his favorite nights.

Not because of the wrestling.

Although he didn't understand that yet.

He loved them because, for two hours, nobody was arguing.

Nobody was leaving.

Nobody was crying in the kitchen.

There was just wrestling, popcorn, and his grandfather yelling at the television.

Then, one Thursday afternoon, Thomas suffered a heart attack while working in his garage.

He survived, but the doctors warned him that his health was declining.

He couldn't lift Eli onto his shoulders anymore.

He got tired walking to the mailbox.

And sometimes, when Eli visited, his grandfather fell asleep before the main event.

The world was changing.

Eli hated it.

He wanted everything to go back to the way it had been.

Before his father left.

Before his grandfather got sick.

Before his mother started working so much.

He wanted the good guys to win.

Just once.

In real life.

October 17, 2009

Sarah Mercer had been awake for nearly nineteen hours when she walked into her son's bedroom carrying two tickets.

She'd worked the breakfast shift at Millie's Diner, cleaned six motel rooms, and stopped at the grocery store to buy milk, bread, and the cheapest peanut butter she could find.

Her shoes were falling apart.

Her car needed new brakes.

And she had twenty-eight dollars left until payday.

But she was smiling.

“Eli.”

He was sitting on the floor playing with two wrestling action figures.

“Yeah?”

“Put those down for a second.”

He looked up.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Should you be?”

“No.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He hesitated.

“Not really.”

Sarah laughed.

“Get over here.”

He stood.

She held out the tickets.

Eli stared at them.

Then at her.

Then at the tickets again.

His eyes widened.

“Momma?”

“Surprise.”

He snatched one from her hand.

SOUTHERN HERITAGE WRESTLING

SATURDAY NIGHT SHOWDOWN

BRIAR GLEN CIVIC CENTER

BELL TIME: 7:00 PM

At the bottom was a picture of Thunder Jack Callahan.

Eli stopped breathing for approximately three seconds.

Then he screamed.

“NO WAY!”

Sarah burst out laughing.

“YES WAY!”

“THUNDER JACK?!”

“Looks like it.”

“IN REAL LIFE?!”

“Unless they've figured out how to put televisions inside people.”

Eli threw his arms around her.

“THANK YOU, MOMMA!”

He hugged her tighter.

“THANK YOU! THANK YOU!”

Sarah kissed the top of his head.

“You deserve something good, baby.”

He pulled away.

“Can Grandpa come?”

Her smile softened.

“Not tonight, sweetheart. He's still resting.”

Eli's face fell slightly.

“Oh.”

“But I called him. He said you're supposed to tell him everything that happens.”

“Everything?”

“Every single move.”

Eli nodded seriously.

“I will.”

He looked at the ticket again.

Then asked something that made Sarah's chest tighten.

“Momma?”

“Yeah?”

“How much did these cost?”

She blinked.

“Why?”

“Because I know we don't have a lot of money.”

For a moment, Sarah couldn't speak.

An eight-year-old boy shouldn't have been worrying about money.

He should have been worrying about homework, cartoons, and whether his favorite wrestler was going to win.

Not electricity bills.

Not groceries.

Not whether his mother could afford to take him somewhere.

She crouched down.

“Listen to me.”

He looked at her.

“You don't worry about money. That's my job.”

“But—”

“Your job is to be a little boy.”

He smiled.

“Okay.”

“And tonight, your job is to have the best time of your life.”

Eli grinned.

“I CAN DO THAT!”

Sarah laughed.

“Good. Now go take a bath. You smell like outside.”

“MOM!”

“GO!”

He ran down the hallway.

Sarah remained in his bedroom.

She looked at the second ticket.

Twenty-four dollars.

She had spent twenty-four dollars on wrestling tickets when she could barely afford groceries.

Some people would have called that irresponsible.

Maybe they were right.

But hearing her son laugh again?

Seeing that smile?

For one night, it was worth every penny.

Saturday Night Showdown

The Briar Glen Civic Center was an old brick building on the outskirts of town.

Its parking lot was full of potholes.

The sign out front had three missing letters.

And the building's air conditioning barely worked.

Inside, 230 wrestling fans sat in folding chairs around a ring that had seen better days.

There were children holding handmade signs.

Teenagers shouting insults at the villains.

Old men arguing about who was the greatest wrestler of all time.

And a concession stand selling hot dogs, popcorn, and sodas for prices Sarah thought were absolutely ridiculous.

Eli didn't care.

The moment he walked through the doors, his eyes widened.

The ring.

The ropes.

The entrance curtain.

The lights.

It was all real.

“Momma.”

“Yeah?”

“Look.”

“I see it.”

“No, Momma. LOOK!”

She laughed.

“I'm looking, baby.”

He grabbed her hand.

“That's where Thunder Jack's gonna wrestle!”

“Apparently.”

“And that's where he's gonna come out!”

“Mhm.”

“And when he wins, everybody's gonna cheer!”

Sarah smiled.

“Sounds like a good time.”

They found their seats in the fourth row.

Eli was practically vibrating.

A large man wearing a baseball cap sat behind them.

He had a gray beard, broad shoulders, and tired blue eyes.

He watched Eli for a moment before chuckling.

“First show?”

Eli spun around.

“YES, SIR!”

The man smiled.

“Thought so.”

Sarah looked over her shoulder.

“I'm sorry. He's a little excited.”

“Don't apologize. That's what we like to see.”

He held out his hand.

“Walter Hensley.”

“Sarah Mercer.”

They shook hands.

Walter looked at Eli.

“And who's this young fella?”

“Elijah Mercer! But everybody calls me Eli!”

“Well, Eli, who's your favorite wrestler?”

“THUNDER JACK!”

Walter laughed.

“Thunder Jack, huh?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Why him?”

Eli thought about it.

Then answered.

“Because he always gets back up.”

Something changed in Walter's expression.

The smile remained, but his eyes grew distant.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He sure does.”

Walter stood.

“Well, you enjoy the show, son.”

“I WILL!”

Walter started walking away.

Then turned back.

“Hey, Eli?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember something for me.”

“What?”

Walter pointed toward the ring.

“Wrestling's about more than winning.”

Eli frowned.

“What's it about then?”

Walter smiled sadly.

“Sometimes it's about giving somebody a reason to smile when they don't have one.”

He walked away before Eli could respond.

Sarah watched him disappear through the entrance curtain.

“Nice man,” she said.

Eli nodded.

Then immediately began asking whether Thunder Jack would throw his jacket into the crowd.

Neither of them knew that Walter Hensley owned Southern Heritage Wrestling.

Neither knew he had once been a famous wrestler himself.

And neither knew how important he would become to Eli's life.

Not yet.

The Main Event

By nine o'clock, Eli had lost his voice.

He'd cheered for the heroes.

Booed the villains.

High-fived strangers.

And accidentally spilled half his soda on the shoes of a man sitting beside him.

Sarah had apologized.

The man had laughed.

Eli had barely noticed.

Because the announcer was standing in the center of the ring.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

The crowd began cheering.

“IT IS NOW TIME FOR YOUR MAIN EVENT!”

Eli jumped to his feet.

“MOMMA! MOMMA!”

“I KNOW, BABY!”

The lights dimmed.

A rumble of thunder echoed through the building.

Then came the music.

Thunder Jack Callahan emerged from behind the curtain.

Eli screamed louder than he ever had in his life.

“THUNDER JAAAAACK!”

Jack walked toward the ring, slapping hands with fans.

He looked different in person.

Older.

More tired.

There were wrinkles around his eyes and gray hairs near his temples.

But to Eli, he was perfect.

Jack stopped near the fourth row.

He noticed the little boy jumping up and down.

Eli raised his fist.

Thunder Jack smiled.

Then raised his own.

For one brief moment, the two shared the same pose.

Eli turned toward his mother.

“DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

Sarah was laughing.

“I SAW IT!”

“HE LOOKED AT ME!”

“I KNOW!”

“HE KNOWS WHO I AM!”

Sarah didn't correct him.

She simply smiled.

Because for the first time in weeks, her little boy looked completely happy.

The match began.

Thunder Jack faced Raymond “The Butcher” Voss, a massive wrestler with a shaved head, thick beard, and black wrestling gear.

The Butcher dominated.

He threw Jack into the turnbuckles.

Slammed him onto the canvas.

And repeatedly mocked the crowd.

At one point, Jack lay motionless near the ropes.

Eli gripped the back of his chair.

“GET UP!”

Sarah glanced at him.

“Baby, he's okay.”

“HE'S HURT!”

“He'll be alright.”

“HOW DO YOU KNOW?!”

Sarah opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

She didn't know.

Not really.

So she watched.

Inside the ring, Thunder Jack slowly pushed himself onto one knee.

The Butcher kicked him back down.

The crowd booed.

Eli shouted again.

“COME ON, JACK!”

The Butcher grabbed Jack by the hair.

He pulled him upright.

Then slapped him across the face.

The crowd erupted in anger.

Eli was nearly crying.

“FIGHT BACK!”

Jack stumbled.

The Butcher charged.

And suddenly—

Jack moved.

The Butcher crashed into the corner.

Jack hit the ropes.

One clothesline.

Then another.

The Butcher staggered.

Jack delivered a powerful forearm.

The giant fell.

The entire building exploded.

Eli grabbed his mother's hand.

“HE'S DOING IT!”

Jack climbed the second rope.

He raised his fist.

The crowd raised theirs.

Eli raised his.

Then Thunder Jack jumped.

His elbow crashed into the Butcher's chest.

The referee dropped to the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

The bell rang.

The crowd went wild.

Eli jumped into his mother's arms.

“HE WON! MOMMA, HE WON!”

Sarah hugged him.

“He sure did!”

Eli laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

For a moment, he forgot about his father.

He forgot about the bills.

He forgot about his grandfather being sick.

There was only the ring.

The cheering.

And a hero who had refused to stay down.

Sarah watched her son celebrate.

And something inside her broke.

Not from sadness.

From love.

Because she finally understood why this ridiculous thing called wrestling meant so much to him.

It gave him hope.

And right now, hope was something they both desperately needed.

Behind the Curtain

After the show, Sarah and Eli walked toward the parking lot.

It was almost ten o'clock.

The night air was cool.

Eli was still talking.

“And then he hit the ropes, and then he knocked him down, and then he climbed up, and then—”

“Eli.”

“What?”

“Breathe.”

He inhaled dramatically.

Sarah laughed.

“Thank you.”

They turned the corner behind the civic center.

That's when Eli stopped.

Sitting on the loading dock was Thunder Jack Callahan.

His leather jacket lay beside him.

An ice pack rested against his shoulder.

His face was tired.

His forehead had a small bandage above his eyebrow.

And he was staring at the ground.

Eli grabbed Sarah's hand.

“Momma.”

She followed his gaze.

“Oh.”

“Can I say hi?”

“Honey, he looks tired.”

“Please?”

Sarah hesitated.

Then nodded.

“Quickly.”

Eli approached slowly.

“Excuse me?”

Thunder Jack looked up.

“Hey, buddy.”

Eli froze.

The man he'd watched on television for years was looking directly at him.

“What's your name?”

“E-Eli.”

“Well, Eli. Did you enjoy the show?”

He nodded.

“A lot.”

Jack smiled.

“Good.”

Eli looked at the ice pack.

“Are you hurt?”

“A little.”

“Does wrestling always hurt?”

Jack chuckled.

“More than I'd like.”

Eli thought about that.

“Then why do you do it?”

Jack looked at him.

It was a simple question.

One he'd been asked hundreds of times.

But something about the way the boy said it made him pause.

He glanced toward the building.

He could still hear the ring crew taking down equipment.

He thought about his aching knees.

His failing marriage.

His daughter, who had turned thirteen last month.

He'd missed her birthday because he was wrestling in Kentucky.

He'd promised to make it up to her.

He still hadn't.

Jack looked back at Eli.

“Because sometimes, when you're out there, you can make people forget whatever's hurting them.”

Eli considered his answer.

“Even if you're hurting too?”

Jack swallowed.

“Yeah, kid.”

He smiled faintly.

“Even if you're hurting too.”

Eli stood silently for a moment.

Then he made a decision.

“I'm gonna be a wrestler.”

Jack laughed.

“Are you now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you better listen to your momma.”

“I do.”

Sarah snorted.

Jack grinned.

“Sounds convincing.”

“And I'm gonna win the world championship.”

“That's a big dream.”

“I know.”

“You think you can do it?”

Eli nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Jack studied him.

Then reached into his gear bag.

He pulled out a roll of white athletic tape and a black marker.

He tore off a strip.

Wrote three words.

And handed it to Eli.

KEEP GETTING UP.

Eli stared at it.

“What's this?”

“Something somebody told me when I was younger.”

“Who?”

“My dad.”

“Was he a wrestler?”

Jack smiled.

“No. He was a school janitor.”

Eli looked confused.

“Then how'd he know about wrestling?”

Jack laughed softly.

“He didn't.”

He pointed at the tape.

“That's not just about wrestling, kid.”

Eli looked at the words again.

Jack leaned forward.

“Life's gonna knock you down sometimes. You're gonna lose matches. You're gonna lose friends. You're gonna make mistakes.”

He paused.

“Sometimes you're gonna lose things you can't ever get back.”

Eli listened carefully.

“But when you can, you get back up. You understand?”

Eli nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Jack smiled.

“Good man.”

Sarah stepped forward.

“Thank you for taking the time.”

Jack shook his head.

“Thank you for bringing him.”

He looked at Eli.

“Take care of your momma, alright?”

Eli smiled.

“I will.”

As they walked away, Jack watched them for a moment.

Then he reached for his phone.

He opened a message from his daughter.

You said you'd call.

Jack stared at it.

The message had been sent four hours earlier.

He typed a response.

Deleted it.

Typed another.

Then finally wrote:

I'm sorry, sweetheart. I love you.

He hit send.

And sat alone on the loading dock, waiting for a reply that never came.

The Drive Home

Eli sat in the passenger seat of Sarah's old Chevrolet, clutching the strip of athletic tape.

The radio played quietly.

Outside, the streets of Briar Glen were nearly empty.

Sarah glanced at him.

“You have fun?”

Eli nodded.

“Best night ever.”

She smiled.

“Good.”

They drove in silence for a while.

Then Eli spoke.

“Momma?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“One day, I'm gonna buy you a big house.”

Sarah laughed.

“Oh, are you?”

“Yep.”

“With what money?”

“My wrestling money.”

She grinned.

“Wrestling money, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Well, what if you don't make a lot of money?”

Eli thought about that.

“Then I'll work another job too.”

Sarah glanced at him.

He was completely serious.

“And why do you want to buy me a big house?”

“Because you work too much.”

Her smile faded.

Eli continued.

“And because sometimes you cry when you think I'm asleep.”

Sarah tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

He looked out the window.

“And because I don't want you to be sad anymore.”

She pulled into a gas station parking lot.

Turned off the engine.

And covered her mouth.

“Momma?”

She looked at him.

Tears filled her eyes.

Eli immediately panicked.

“I'm sorry.”

“No, baby.”

She reached across the seat.

“No, no. Come here.”

He leaned toward her.

Sarah wrapped her arms around him.

“You don't have to take care of me,” she whispered.

“But I want to.”

“I know.”

She kissed his forehead.

“But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don't spend your whole life trying to make everybody else happy.”

Eli frowned.

“Why?”

“Because you deserve to be happy too.”

He thought about that.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

Sarah held him a little longer.

Eventually, they drove home.

She tucked him into bed.

Kissed his forehead.

And turned off the light.

But Eli didn't fall asleep immediately.

He lay beneath his blankets, staring at the ceiling.

In his right hand was the strip of athletic tape.

Keep getting up.

He thought about Thunder Jack.

About the cheering crowd.

About the feeling he'd had when the referee counted three.

And for the first time since his father left, Eli felt something other than sadness.

He felt purpose.

He didn't know how difficult his dream would become.

He didn't know about the broken bones, the long drives, or the empty bank accounts.

He didn't know that one day he would stand in front of seventy thousand people with a championship belt held above his head.

He didn't know that the woman he would love more than anyone in the world would one day look him in the eyes and tell him she didn't recognize him anymore.

He didn't know that his best friend would become his greatest enemy.

Or that one day, he'd have to choose between the wrestling business and the family he'd fought so hard to build.

He didn't know any of that.

He was eight years old.

He had a dream.

And tonight, that was enough.

October 18, 2009 — 7:12 AM

Sarah woke to the sound of something crashing in the living room.

She bolted upright.

“ELIJAH!”

“IT'S OKAY!”

She rushed down the hallway.

Eli stood in the middle of the living room.

A couch cushion lay on the floor.

Two pillows were stacked beside it.

One of his wrestling action figures was wedged beneath the coffee table.

Sarah stared at the scene.

“What on God's green earth are you doing?”

Eli smiled.

“Training.”

“For what?”

“My wrestling career.”

Sarah looked at the couch.

Then at the pillows.

Then at her son.

“Eli.”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“If you jump off that couch, I'm gonna end your wrestling career before it starts.”

He slowly stepped away from the furniture.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She turned toward the kitchen.

“And pick up those pillows!”

“Yes, ma'am!”

Sarah disappeared around the corner.

Eli waited.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three.

Then he raised his fist toward an imaginary crowd.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

From the kitchen came his mother's voice.

“ELIJAH!”

He lowered his hand.

“Sorry!”

But he was smiling.

Because somewhere inside that little house on Willow Street, a dream had been born.

And dreams, Eli would eventually learn, were dangerous things.

They could save a person.

They could destroy a person.

Sometimes they could do both.