Page 128 of Undertow

I’m still breathing.

My blood is still pumping through my veins, waiting to write my story.

THEN: THE END OF THE BEGINNING

(Two years, five months earlier)

The phone erupts on the small table in front of us. Gramps and I exchange a surprised look before I lean forward to check the display.

No one has this number. It’s registered to a fictitious person named Roman Everett Shaw.

Must be a junk call.

But my pulse recognizes the area code before the rest of me, because it’s already pounding when my brain interprets the 4-1-6.

Sweat breaks over my skin.

I glance at Gramps but he’s settled in his armchair, watching tv.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, scooping up the phone. “Been waiting for this call,” I lie.

He nods without looking away from the screen.

The phone is vibrating in my hand as I exit the small cabin. I can’t tell how much of the shaking is the phone’s mechanics and how much is my own fear at what’s waiting on the other end of the call. I do know not answering isn’t an option.

If they have this number, they have everything.

I press accept.

“Jonah?” a familiar voice says after a long silence.

My eyelids slip closed. My lungs fill with death.

“How did you find me?” I say in a faint voice.

“I’m disappointed you thought we wouldn’t,” my father says.

I run a hand over my face, fighting to maintain control of my voice. Those parasites feed off fear. The terror of their son is a priceless delicacy and they’ve been without it for years.

“How’s Razor?” he says with a sneer. “His heart wasn’t doing so great when you took off. Can’t imagine he’s improving without his medications.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. They know the truth.

He’s dying. Shriveling. And doing so willingly if it means my freedom.

“What are your terms?” I say finally.

“You have two days to get back to Toronto, Jonah. Bring Razor. We already have a room reserved for him at Blue Meadows Assisted Living Community just across the border. What you tell him about the change is up to you.”

I wince through the pounding in my ears.

“Two days, or he gets the end he deserves,” he repeats.

“And me? Will I be getting what Ideserve?” I spit out.

Silence settles over the line. I can picture them exchanging a look of disgust and disappointment. I don’t know what they wanted in a son, but they’ve spent my life demonstrating it wasn’t me.

“You’re part of this whether you want it or not, Jonah. This will continue until you learn your place,” my mother says.

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