Page 116 of One Step Too Far

“One brother is separated from the others.”

“But he doesn’t give up. He journeys the forest looking for a way out. He’s determined to survive.”

“The other four search for him. But the beast comes back. They fight. One by one. They fall.”

“But the first brother is still watching over them,” I counter. “He wants his brothers to live.”

“They were lousy brothers. They never should’ve separated in the first place.”

“He understands. He still wants them to live.”

“But the forest is the forest.” Miggy sighs. “It wants the brothers to be together again. For all of eternity.”

“The first brother fights the forest.”

Miguel looks at me. “The first brother is already dead.”

“You are not very good at stories, Miggy.”

“What did you expect? I’m an engineer.”

“More water?” I offer. Because Miggy’s not wrong. In terms of happily ever afters, we’re shit out of luck.

“Tell my father I went down fighting.”

“Nope. You want him to know, show up and show off your battle scars yourself.”

“You shouldn’t have joined our mad little party.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Die with strangers?”

“Honestly? I always figured I’d die alone. So all in all, this is progress.”

“Did you do something terrible?” he asks me curiously. “Or did someone do something terrible to you? Is that why you now drift from place to place?”

“No. Though once there was a man who loved me more than I could love him. And he ended up dying because of that love, but it wasn’t really my fault, or even his fault. Just one of those things. But I’d started wandering even before that. It hurt him that I didn’t love him enough to stay. And hurt me that he didn’t understand my need to leave.”

“I haven’t cared about someone that much yet.”

“Maybe your new face will do the trick.”

“Chicks dig scars?”

“Exactly.”

“Frankie, in the bottom of my pack. There’s a flask. Get it.”

I assume he means another stainless steel water bottle, so it takes my fingers a moment to register the shape. A real flask. The old-fashioned, thin, rectangular kind with a screw-off cap. I free it from the backpack and find myself staring. I talked to Neil about being an alcoholic. But I’ve never mentioned it to Miggy.

“I brought it,” Miguel murmurs, the whistle building in his chest. “For when we found Tim. One last toast. A fitting farewell, I don’t know.”

My fingers are trembling as I hand it over. I inhale deeply as he loosens the cap.

“Maker’s Mark,” he supplies. “Our final drink together as friends.”

I can only nod.

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