Page 83 of Wrath

“Millsy. What’s the other thing you say?”

“DG.” He smirks. “For Do Gooder.”

“Oh, yes. Do Gooder.”

“Miller,” he says softly. “When did you stop being Josh and become Miller with your friends?”

“Maybe when I played peewee?”

“Your dad said you played.”

“Yup.”

“Not your favorite?” he asks.

“Had to stop.”

“Because of…” Ezra waves his hand.

“Yes.” Because of epilepsy. “Soccer is almost as bad, but I was playing quarterback in peewee, so that was worse.”

“Yeah?” His face lights up. “You like to throw?”

“It’s been a long time.”

“We should do it sometime,” he says.

“Burn my palm up.” I shake my head.

“I can throw it easy for you.” He grins.

“Gee thanks.”

He smirks, but this time I can tell he’s teasing.

We walk through the cemetery’s grand, wrought-iron gate.

“Moss,” he says.

“Yeah…” I wave at the trees ahead. “These big, old oaks have lots of moss, especially when they’re near the water.”

“Is the water that way?” He points toward the back of the cemetery.

“Yep. We’re gonna veer left here, though,” I tell him, following a pebbled road that curves out toward the left. Treeshang over it. On its right, there’s a slanted field, and on the left, a bunch of very old graves.

“What’s the sign?” he asks as we approach a historical marker on our right.

“It’s about this being an unmarked grave.” Something awful dawns on me. “Are cemeteries…you know. Like for you—given your—”

“Are you asking if cemeteries make me want to tuck myself into a coffin?” He’s smirking.

“Sorry if that’s rude or something. Just wondering.”

“Thank you,” he says, sounding husky. I notice he never answers.

We’ve reached the historical marker, and he steps closer to it. I watch his profile as he reads—the way his lips tighten and his brow furrows at what the sign says.

“That’s some shit,” he murmurs, and then walks on, following the pebble road.

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