Page 35 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“It’s seven o’clock in the morning. Can you please give it a rest? I’m not awake yet and really don’t need you on my ass.”

Piling a chipped plate high with pancakes, I take pity on him and add some bacon from the frying pan. He immediately perks up and promptly covers his entire breakfast in golden syrup while offering me his best shit-eating grin.

“Eat up.” I pile my own plate high with food. “We need to work on the Jacobsons’ cabin this morning and clear the bonfire site from the party.”

“Got it, boss,” he drones with a mouthful of food.

“Is your brother up yet?”

“I heard him come to bed at three o’clock this morning. That’s four days straight, Kill.”

“I’m sure he napped in his art studio.”

“Don’t bullshit me. I’m not Lola,” he replies, pointing his syrupy fork at me. “We need to do something about these depressive episodes. That last therapist seemed to help him.”

“Until he refused to go anymore.”

“Maybe we can talk him into going again?” Zach muses, pausing to lick his plate clean like an animal. “You’ll probably have more luck than me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shoots me a pointed look, swigging on his coffee. “Well, last time you threatened to bulldoze his art studio and build a home gym instead. That got him to come out.”

“Lola went fucking ballistic when she heard.”

“It’s not like you were actually gonna do it.”

That’s what he thinks. I would’ve taken a wrecking ball to that damn studio if it got Micah to come back to us. None of us can pretend to fathom his complicated mind. As Zach’s reclusive, introverted twin brother, we’ve always known that he’s different.

Even when they were kids, Micah didn’t smile or laugh like others did. It’s like he was born without that part of his brain functioning properly. My parents used to call him a tortured artist, but it’s far more than a lazy stereotype.

They adopted both of the twins when I was still a young kid. Their father, my mother’s older brother, died of prostate cancer, leaving his two young sons behind as their mother was long gone by that point.

While we’re actually first cousins, we grew up together like brothers. Zach and Micah are both twenty-four years old, but the six years between us feel like a lifetime.

I’ve assumed the role of parent since my folks died too, and all the responsibility that brings fell on my shoulders. Most days, I feel older than Lola.

“I’ll talk to him,” I concede. “No promises.”

“Thanks, Kill. I just want to see him well again, you know? I get that he’ll always struggle, but we can’t pretend that how things are at the moment is normal.”

“Yeah, I know. Come on, finish up.”

Dumping our empty dishes by the sink to clean up later, we pull on our mud-splattered work boots and thick denim jackets before heading out into the early morning sunshine. The February air is crisp and refreshing.

I can hear Ryder’s headache-inducing eighties music blaring from the garage behind their cabin from here. He’s working on my truck, changing the oil and checking the engine. His work always entails him blasting terrible music that should remain in the past.

“Morning, campers,” Zach calls out. “Can you kill the shit music, Ry?”

Ringlets appear from beneath the huge engine, and I can see that Ryder’s boyish face is already covered in grease.

“Morning! Any breakfast left for me?”

I gesture towards the cabin behind me. “Left some pancakes and bacon for you next to the oven. Coffee’s fresh too.”

“Score,” he replies. “Thanks, Kill.”

Albie also appears from the back of the garage, lugging a secondhand tyre in his arms. Even at his advanced age, he’s fighting fit and stronger than a fucking horse. He dumps it next to Ryder with a huff.

---