When death is near, take a good look around.
You’ll see your ancestors.

1

Derek Walston, age 11, begins to choke on a piece of bubblegum while home alone.

Chair, chair, chair. Look for the chair. Lean on the chair. Put your stomach on the chair.

And push.

And push.

And push!

Dang it. God damn in. Dang it. Fuck. Frick.

And push.

Stupid chair. Stupid gum. Nana told me to be careful with candy. Never with gum, but with candy.

And push.

Let’s try a different chair. Papa’s recliner. Lean in. Put your stomach on it.

And push.

And push!

And PUSH!

Frick frick frick frick frick.

Stay calm, Derek. Stay calm under pressure – like Kobe. Be Kobe. Mamba.

What if I tried pulling it out? I don’t remember learning that from Mr. Urtz, but Nana says I have piano fingers.

Okay, lean back.

Press fingers in…and go.

Derek Walston, age 11, dry heaves.

Again. Press fingers in…and go.

Derek Walston, age 11, dry heaves.

Shit. Shoot. Kobe. Be Kobe. Be Mamba.

Piano fingers like Nana says…looking more like plum fingers now. All purple. All blue. Turning to plum fingers.

---

Marcy Walston, death by breast cancer, 1998, enters the room.

Frank Walston, death by self-harm, 1999, enters the room.

“Honey, oh my goodness. Just look at the poor child,” Marcy said, eyes welling up.

“He’s Owen’s child if I’ve ever seen it. Grown so fast that little Derek,” Frank replied.

“Do something, Frank. Please do something, will you?”

“Darlin’, we’ve been gone almost ten years now. You know we can’t do anything.”

“I don’t believe it. I think we’ll be able to one of these days. I know we will. He’s just a boy, Frank. Look at him, he’s such a sweet little boy.”

Marcy leaned in, gently hovering her hand over Derek’s face, now strained and blushed.

“Don’t get too close, honey,” Frank insisted.

“He’s such a sweet little boy, Frank,” she repeated. “Is he going to get through it? Do you think?”

Frank bit his lower lip and exhaled. “…We’re here now, hon. That’s what matters.”

Marcy straightened her back now. “Yeah. And we’re the only ones. That’s a good sign, right?”

“I think so. Yes. That’s a good sign,” Frank said.

Doris Walston, death by drug overdose, 1994, enters the room.

“Mom, Dad,” Doris greeted, taking a seat on one of the footstools that dotted the edge of the kitchen. “Has anything happened yet?”

“Not yet, sweetie,” said Frank. “We’re hoping he pulls through.”

“Little Derek. It’s just so awful, Doris,” Marcy said.

“It is, Mom. I hope he pulls through. We’re all hoping he pulls through.”

“He’s getting so pale now, Frank! We need to do something, please.”

2

Stanley McCorty, age 10, falls to the living room floor. Mouth bloodied.

“Ya fuckin’ dirt bag. How many times I gotta tell ya to keep your hands off the goddamn remote?”

“I didn’t touch it, Pop.”

“Bullshit you didn’t. All you boys do is lie. Lie lie lie. Lie out your fuckin’ teeth – if I asked you the day of the week you’d lie about that too, I’ll bet. Outta habit you’d fuckin’ lie.”

Stanley McCorty, age 10, lies still on the living room floor.

Goddamn moron left it on the counter himself. He never remembers when he gets like this. When his breath starts smellin’ like mouthwash.

“Hey! You listening to anything I’m sayin’?”

I nodded my head.

“Say it.”

“It.”

That really set him off. That always does – me being a smartass.

Clap!

The ones that nicked your ear were always the stingers. The worst kind of ones. Like you got hit with a baseball. ‘Specially on account of he barely ever clips his dang fingernails. The damn sloth. Like a cat scratchin’ on your ear. Big ass sloth beast pig screwer. That’s all he is. A big wildebeest, Justin and I call him. He’s the liar! He’s the asshole. He’s the sloth cat pig nose pig screwer. Dickhead. Piece of crap dickhead.

Clap!

“Say you understand, Stanley.”

“I understand, Pop.”

Clap!

“Say you understand, sir.”

“I understand, sir. I won’t do it again. I won’t take the remote anymore, sir.”

“Good. Now, get up.”

Stanley McCorty, age 10, gets up.

Henry McCorty, age 27, wipes down Stanley’s shirt with his hand.

“See what I have to do to you? See what I have to do to you boys? Just the smallest shit. The littlest shit. You can’t even get the littlest shit right. I work all day long––”

“Dad! Come on – it’s almost 7 o’clock!” Justin yelled from the other room.

“I’m comin’. Hold on,” he said.

He opened up the fridge, pulled out a Coors, closed the fridge.

He opened up the fridge, pulled out a Dr. Pepper, held it out.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Suit yourself.”

He cracked open the Coors, put the Dr. Pepper back, closed the fridge.

“Jeff Hardy’s gonna be on tonight. Your favorite,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Him and RVD are gonna duke it out.”

“Yeah.”

He took a swig from the Coors. “Who you think’ll take it?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Hardy probably.”

“I hope so. I don’t like that Rob Van Dam.”

“Yeah, I don’t either,” I lied.

“Always gloatin’.”

“Yeah.”

My ear felt like it was bleeding but it wasn’t. I checked in the bathroom mirror. I stayed in my room and played a bunch of Goldeneye. Thursday nights were nice. I’d get the room to myself for a bit while Justin and Dad, Hank, aka snotty-nosed fat mouth pig screwer, watched Smackdown.

Maybe “pig screwer” was a little harsh, Stanley. Maybe you should stick to “dickhead” and “asshole” and names like that. Those didn’t feel as bad. Maybe you are ungrateful. Maybe you are a little bastard. Staying in your room all night after they invited you to watch TV with them. Maybe you should’ve. Maybe you should now – there’s still half an hour left. Taylor doesn’t even have his Dad around, or his Mom. And he seems grateful. He seems like he’d watch Smackdown if his Dad didn’t move to Anchorage.

Yeah, but Taylor’s Mamaw got him a four-wheeler at least. A big red one with side mirrors and a headlight he could ride all over Nelson Township if he wanted to.

No, he’s still a pig screwer. He’s King Pig Screwer for clappin’ me. Dads shouldn’t do that. Least not on the ear – on the ass maybe. Or the leg. Not the face. Not the ear.

Cheers came from the other room. Hardy must’ve taken it. Must’ve taken the belt. Justin would like that – Hardy was his favorite, not mine. Mine was the Undertaker. Dad, Hank, aka King Pig Screwer, never remembered that. He never remembers anything when his breath starts smellin’ like mouthwash.

3

Derek Walston, age 11, walks in circles around the kitchen.

Dizzy. Dizzy. Feeling real…dizzzy now.

No. Wake up! Come on now. Think think think.

Another chair?

No.

Maybe the stool?

No.

Supposed to be on a hard surface Mr. Urtz said. For the Heimlich.

Think think think…

Mrs. Peters! Yeah yeah yeah. Mrs. Peters.

Derek Walston, age 11, walks through the front door.

Derek Walston, age 11, stumbles forty yards to Mrs. Peter’s home.

Derek Walston, age 11, walks up the porch stairs and knocks on the front door. Once. Twice. Three four five times.

Come on come on come on! PLEASE.

Fuck! Frick.

Derek Walston, age 11, knocks on the front door.
Once. Twice. Three four five times.

She’s gotta be here. Come on. Maybe try the window, Derek.

Yeah, the window.

Don’t. See. Her. Kinda hard to see in there. The glare. Might be asleep. Just see the cat. Waving her tail.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Mr. Mable’s is way too far down the road. Wouldn’t make it. Not now. Think think think. Be cool, Derek. Kobe Kobe Kobe.

Kobe Kobe.

Kobe…

Derek Walston, age 11, trips on a loose floorboard and falls down.

Derek Walston, age 11, lies still.

---

“Hurry, Frank! Come on,” Marcy blurts out, trailing closely behind Derek as he opens the door and bursts outside.

“Where is he going, Dad?” Doris asked, standing up from the stool.

“Looks like the neighbor’s place.”

“Looks like the little guy’s on his last leg, don’t it?”

Frank examined the white laminate floors and sighed. “Sure seems like it.”

“Damn. Another one. Poor Aunt Rebecca and Uncle George,” Doris said.

Owen Walston, death by car accident, 2006, enters the room.

Holly Walston-Schmidt, death by car accident, 2006, enters the room.

Frank straightened. “Owen. Holly.”

Owen spun around, eyes wide. “Where is he, Uncle Frank? Where is he?”

Frank’s head lowered for a moment before it shot back up. He pointed toward the door.

Owen raced outside.

“How are you doin’, Uncle Frank?” Holly asked, giving him a hug.

“I should be asking you how you’re doing. You holding up okay?”

Holly stared out of the kitchen window – if she squinted, she could make out the torn-up silo on the farm way down the road her and Owen used to sneak away to. “I’m doing alright…Having Derek here with us again wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?” She forced a chuckle.

Frank leaned in and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “It sure wouldn’t.”

Frank Walston, Doris Walston, and Holly Walston-Schmidt follow behind Owen.

4

Barbara Peters, age 78, pours steaming tea into a cup.

“The scripture never gets old, Cathy,” I said. “You can hear it a million times in a million different ways and get something brand new every single time.”

Cathy just shuffled her fluffy tail at that. She’s such a doll. Best cat I’ve had. I think it’ll take her a while to adjust to these new scriptures on the web. She’s been so used to the TV and cassette tapes and listening to my recordings of Pastor Brian’s sermons all these years.

“And now, let us pray,” Pastor Lopez’s voice sang through the speakers. Talk about a man. So handsome. I’d watched nearly all his sermons online, at his own church and in guest spots as well. I was almost done with them all so I was taking it slower now.

I bowed my head. Cathy’s eyes stayed open, but I know she was with me in spirit by the way she was purring.

“Dear Father,” he said.

“Dear Father,” I repeated.

“We come before you today with humility. We honor you and all your blessings…”

“Yes, God.”

“…We know we won’t always understand your intentions. We know we won’t always agree with your path. We know we won’t always want to take the road you’ve carved out for us…”

“Yes, Father.”

Huh?

Hello?

Pastor?

I opened my eyes then, only because the sermon stopped. I never open my eyes during a prayer.

No no no. What’s going on? The screen was frozen. I kept clicking and clicking and clicking and it wouldn’t fix it. Oh, no. No no no no. God, no. Pastor Lopez, it’s not my fault, it’s the gosh darn computer’s fault. It’s probably the gosh darn internet again.

“Cathy, did you bump into anything again?”

She hopped off the couch and into the kitchen. It might’ve been Cathy. That might’ve been why, Pastor Lopez. That might’ve been why I couldn’t finish the prayer. That might’ve been why I had to open my eyes. I never open my eyes, Pastor. I never do.

I kept clicking and clicking and clicking. Nothing.

“Ah! Dang it!” I yelled. Not screamed, just raised my voice. It wasn’t a scream.

I kept pounding and pounding and pounding on the mouse. Nothing.

“Darn thing! Damn computer!” That might’ve been a scream. You shouldn’t curse, Barbie. Not around Cathy, you shouldn’t.

I threw the tea kettle at the wall then. I disconnected the mouse and threw that at the wall too. I threw my stirring spoon and placemat and coaster at the wall after that.

Into the bathroom now. Stay calm now, Barbie. Into the bathroom now. Let’s go there. I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the container.

Just two. Take two, Barbie.

“Why? Why just two?”

Because, you know why. The internet will be back on.

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.”

It’ll be back on.

“I always take two.”

That’s what Dr. Barnes told you to take.

“I do every time and it doesn’t work. It never works. You know it and I know it – that it doesn’t work.”

Barbie. Please.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

The sermons are there forever on video. They won’t disappear.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Barbie. You don’t know what will happen.

“WHY shouldn’t I?”

Because you shouldn’t! Because he wouldn’t want you to.

“How the hell do you know what he’d want? You didn’t know him like I did. You never knew him. Don’t talk about him, damn it. Don’t you dare talk about him!”

Nathaniel Peters, death by cancer, 2008, enters the room.

I’m just trying to help, Barbie.

“You don’t know what he’d want. You or Dr. Barnes or anybody. He would want what I want! He would want me to do whatever I could to make it go away. To make it all go away! That’s what he’d want.”

Who’s going to run bible study?

“Molly does as good a job as anyone.”

Who’s going to run the bagel and coffee booth?

“Robert can do it. Give him a week or so and he can do it.”

Who’s going to keep helping Eileen then?

“Francene might be able to do it…I think if she really tried she could. Maybe she could. She’s a little shaky when it comes to the housework, but she could do it.”

Nathaniel Peters places his hands over Barbara’s shoulders, tears in his eyes.

The capsules glistened in the palm of my hand – getting a little sticky from the sweat.

I took one.

I took two.

They glistened – red and blue rubies.

“Rushing God’s plan is a sin, Barbie,” Nathaniel said.

Red and blue – reflecting the bathroom light.

“Rushing God’s plan is a sin, Barbie,” Nathaniel cried.

Barbara Peters, age 78, drops the capsules back into the container.

Back to bed now, Barbie. Back to bed now.

5

Oh, man. Guess…she’s…not…home.

Love you.

Wish I could tell ‘em.

Wish I could…tell ‘em all.

Mom.

Dad.

Papa.

Nana.

Lauren too…even though she’d never look back at me…she’s so pretty…the prettiest…

Love ‘em.

---

Owen laid prone right beside Derek on the porch. Marcy balled her fists – eyes wet and hollow.

“Get up, kid. Come on now. Get up, buddy,” Owen whispered.

Derek’s face, normally tan and freckled, was purple now. Fingers swollen, trembling against beige floorboards. The sight made Holly burst into tears. Uncle Frank held tightly onto her.

Owen moved closer to his son’s ear.

Just look at him. He grew his hair out – just like mine. Curly brown. I’ll bet Nana says the same to him as she used to to me – ‘Arby’s curly fries’. That’s how she’d describe it, I’ll bet. He’s way taller than I’ll ever be. Already by the looks of it. I’ll bet he’ll make varsity freshman year when he makes it out of this. I’ll bet he’ll lay the hammer down on the block when he makes it out. Drop step, pump fake, and layup. Drop step, pump fake, reverse layup or hook shot. Step back three-pointer. Just like I taught ‘em. Just like Kobe “Jellybean” fuckin’ Bryant. Little bastard. To win the game at the buzzer I’ll bet he does. Just like Jellybean. Whole team puts ‘em on their shoulders if they can carry the little guy. The big guy. I’ll bet he still rides that bike I got ‘em too. I’ll bet he rides that thing for miles down these back roads just like I did – tearin’ through gravel and concrete like nobody’s business. From Nelson to Akron like nothin’. I’ll bet he finally figured out those damn exponents and x’s and y’s like I never could. I’ll bet he has already by now. He always found a way. No, he always finds a way, Owen. He’s still here. He’s still fuckin’ here. Right in front of ya.

“Come on. Come on, kid! Get up. Get the hell up!”

“He can use the porch railing for the Heimlich. The chair wasn’t the right shape,” Marcy cried out. “Frank, don’t you think so?”

“I think he can, honey. I really hope he does,” he replied.

“What the heck happened to neighbors, huh? Is this the country or New York City?” Marcy continued through her tears. “Where the heck is that old woman when you need her? The little boy is choking – our sweet little, Derek.”

Owen leaned in closer. “Buddy, get the hell up now. It ain’t your time yet, champ.”

6

“You’ve gotta catch ‘em from behind, Stan. You’ve gotta sneak up behind ‘em and grab ‘em right by this middle part here. You see it? The part where their claws come out of.” Taylor demonstrated, throwing his hand into the stream – swirling dirt clouds danced in the water like a kaleidoscope. “Shit. Missed him.”

“I know how to catch a crayfish, Taylor,” I said.

“Yeah, but you got snagged last time.”

“So, what? That always happens. Can happen to anyone.”

“Not if you go for the middle part. Only happens when you go for the tail. That’s the problem with the tail – crayfish can bend up and bite ya. Like he’s doin’ a sit up.” Taylor stepped back and scanned the murky water for his next target.

“Can’t he pinch you from any part?”

“Nope. He can’t reach your fingers from the middle part. Like you got him in a full nelson. Just try it,” he said.

“Okay, I’ll try it. Next time I see one I’ll try it,” I said. “Should’ve just got the slingshots today anyway. Barely any crayfish out. Twice as many birds and squirrels.”

“My Papaw says we just gotta stick to beneath the rocks. In the open spots like these ones. The deeper spots.”

“Like trenches in the water?”

“Yeah. Kinda,” he said.

“Can we just ride the four-wheeler already, Taylor?”

He waded in the water, carefully moving through moss and mud – a soldier in a minefield. “Yeah. Just a few more minutes.”

“You said that a few minutes ago.”

“I really wanna catch one, Stan. I haven’t in days.”

“We only get to ride the four-wheeler once a week. We can hunt for crayfish any day.”

Taylor let out a sigh. “Shit. Alright alright. Yeah, let’s go then. But tomorrow I wanna hunt for more.”

I smiled. “We’ll hunt for twice as long to make up for it.”

“Swear?”

“Swear.”

“Let’s go then,” he said, dragging his feet out of the stream and onto land.

---

We made it back to the trailer park. Back home.

That’s weird. Why’s Dad’s – Hank’s – car in the driveway? “It’s Tuesday, right?” I asked Stan.

“Yeah. I think.”

“It’s definitely Tuesday.”

“Ain’t your pops s’pposed to be at work?”

“Yeah. Usually.”

“Shit,” Taylor said, exhaling. “We can’t ride the four-wheeler anymore, huh?”

I sniffed, and looked down the road.

“We can just catch toads and then lightning bugs later. I got the new nets my auntie got me,” Taylor said. “Want to do that? … Stan? Come on. Let’s just do that.”

“No,” I said. “We’re gonna ride the four-wheeler.”

Even from the corner of my eye, I could see Taylor shuffling his feet – pulling at blades of grass with his toes. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah. We’ll just go in and ask him.”

More shuffling.

“It’ll be easy,” I said. “With you in there it’ll be easy. He’s always nicer when you’re with me.”

“He don’t like me much.”

“He gave you that Daisy Red Rider last year for Christmas. Remember?”

“He don’t like me much, Stan.”

“We’re gonna ride the four-wheeler. You can wait outside if you want to,” I said, starting for the front door.

“Wait,” he said, catching up. “No, I’m comin’. I’ll go inside.”

We went inside.

The TV was on in the other room. Blasting.

Taylor leaned against the counter.

Maybe Taylor’s right. Maybe we should just catch toads.

No, we can’t keep lettin’ him ruin everything. He’s not supposed to be home on Tuesdays. He’s supposed to be at work. Those are four-wheeler days – the only days when Taylor’s Mamaw and Papaw are both gone.

“Stanley,” Dad called from the other room.

Taylor stiffed up.

“Stanley!”

“Yeah, Pop,” I answered.

“Come in here,” he said.

I came in there.

Dad was leaning back on the couch, remote in one hand and beer in the other. Three, no four, Coors cans on his TV tray. His left ear looked swollen – like a piece of cabbage or somethin’.

“Yeah, Pop?”

He didn’t look up. “Who’s with ya?”

“Taylor.”

“Mm. You know you’re supposed to let me know when guests are comin’ in.”

“Yeah, I know, but…we were just comin’ in for a second..to ask you if we could…see if we could ride the four-wheeler around a bit today. Just down the road and that’s it.”

His lips pursed. I looked at the carpet.

I went on. “We’ll be really careful. We’re both really good riders. Taylor’s even better than I am. He’s been riding since he was nine.”

“Mm.”

“We’ll be really careful.”

“Since he was nine, huh?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Two whole years, sir.”

“Why don’t I ever see him ridin’ that thing when his grandparents are home then?” He took a gulp from the Coors can – eyes still pinned to the TV.

“He rides it when they’re home. They just aren’t home today – they’re at the flea market over in Hartville.”

“Oh does he now?”

“Yes, sir. He does.”

“You think I’m real stupid. Don’t you?”

“No, sir. I don’t think that.”

Dad breathed out through his nose for a couple seconds.

“I don’t want you ridin’ that thing, Stanley.”

“But, sir…”

“I said I don’t want you ridin’ that thing.” He turned from the TV to face me now. His ear was even worse than it looked like, first glance.

“Dad, come on. Please, I’ll be––”

“Say ONE more goddamn thing and I’ll knock your ass to the floor. You hear me? You understand?”

My heart felt like a speaker box.

“I said, do you understand?”

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“I understand, but that’s bull! You’re supposed to be at work today so we can ride the four-wheeler. Why aren’t you at work?”

I didn’t even know if I said those words. It could’ve been me but maybe it was someone else.

“Stan,” Taylor muttered from the kitchen.

It must’ve been me that said it.

“You’re an ungrateful little bitch,” Dad said.

“I d-didn’t mean what I said, Dad. I’m so––”

“I work fuckin’ hard. I work all day long and have to come back to an ungrateful little bitch.”

“I’m so sorry, Dad. I didn’t––”

“Only reason Taylor can ride that death machine is his parents are both deadbeats. Gone to fuckin’ Alaska. Disappeared and left ‘em like a heap of garbage. I show up for my sons!”

“Dad, come on.” I turned to Taylor. “Taylor, he didn’t mean––”

“Complainin’ about me not being at work. You little prick. You little asshole. I should kick you out and put you on the damn street.”

Whoosh!

He threw the beer he was drinking at me. The can missed me but the actual beer caught me in the face like a squirt gun. I don’t like the smell of beer.

Henry McCorty, age 27, stands up.

“Dad, stop!”

He didn’t stop. He clocked me good. Once, twice in the ear. Once, twice, three times on the side of the head. I heard Taylor crying behind me. Probably felt bad – like he wanted to help me but couldn’t. It was my fault for bringin’ him in here anyway. Nothin’ he could do.

I was on the ground then. Dad was gruntin’ somethin’ about pussy or wimp or coward.

Once, twice in the ribs. I rolled over before the third hit me. Once, twice, three times on the back.

He stopped, breathing loud. Taylor and I both cryin’ then.

“Ungrateful little runt. I work hard! I work hard for you and your brother and this is all I get. I gotta do it all alone and this is all I fuckin’ get.”

Taylor helped me up then. Blood all over my Lebron James jersey. All red. That’s when I balled my fists up, cocked back, and hit King Pig Screwer so hard in the dick that he groaned like a dying calf. Squealed like the punk he was. I hated him. I wanted him gone. Forever. I wanted to tie him up and pour gas on him and watch him light up like a candle like they did in the midnight movies. I wanted to see him cry out for help just so I could scream, until my throat was numb and chest emptied, that I hated him so much and I’d never help him ever. I’d watch him get burned alive with popcorn in my hand. Loser. Piece of shit loser who can’t keep a job or mom around.

I turned to Taylor then, eyes probably looking crazy. I didn’t have to say anything. He knew what we needed to do.

We sprinted out of my trailer, shoelaces flying everywhere, jumped on the four-wheeler then. Gave it a start. Before we knew it we were ripping down the road – dried up corn stalks and beat-down barn houses racing by us.

7

Barbara Peters, age 78, wakes up suddenly.

Thud thud thud!

What the…who’s at?

Thud thud thud!

What on earth? Who’s at the door?

Thud thud thud thud thud!

“Okay, I’m coming! Jeepers,” I said. I dragged my legs from the mattress to the bedside – jeans still on. Maybe it was the internet repairman at the door. It better not be. The internet better be back on by now or I’ll throw a fit. It isn’t right that they treat their paying customers like this. It just isn’t right.

Thud thud thud thud thud!

“I’m coming, gosh darn it!” Sheesh.

Barbara Peters, age 78, opens her front door.

Barbara Peters, age 78, screams.

What the heck is going on? Shapes and shadows moved through my front yard, waving and whirring before they settled in. What on earth…

First thing came into focus was a red dirt bike parked out front by the deck – or, I don’t know if dirt bikes have two pairs of wheels like this one did – this huge four-wheel monster thing. Next I saw there were two boys wrestling on the ground. One had blood all over his shirt.

“Ma’am, help! Please, you need to help.”

No, there were three boys. The other was the one who knocked on the door. Who just spoke.

One of the boys who was wrestling was blue in the face now. Oh my…oh no…oh no.

“He’s choking, ma’am! He’s choking!”

I ran over to the boys in the front yard. The boy in the bloody shirt was trying to do the Heimlich. “Wrong, son. All wrong,” I said.

He was lifting the boy who was choking…oh my goodness…that was the neighbor boy. That was little Derek. That made me shriek. You could barely recognize him now.

The other boy lifted him off the ground, front to back, gritting his teeth with every heave. Pounding Derek in the stomach. These must’ve been his friends.

“It won’t. Come. Out,” the other boy said, face as red now as Derek’s was blue.

Owen Walston, death by car accident, 2006, kneels close to his son.

Holly Walston-Schmidt, death by car accident, 2006, stands back, teeth on fingernails.

Frank, Marcy, and Doris Walston held on to one another.

“Come on! Come on! Come on!” Owen yelled.

I wish I could help him. Oh, Lord, I wish I was strong enough to help him like I used to. “Hands lower, son,” I instructed. “Right beneath the sternum. Right there. One fist balled up and the other over it.”

Stanley McCorty, age 10, rearranges his hands.

Taylor O’Brien, age 11, crouches a few yards away.

“Like this?” the boy asked.

“Yes. Go now. Go!” I bellowed.

The boy gave Derek a jolt.

“And another!”

The boy pounded into little Derek’s stomach. His eyes were starting to lose their light now. Lord, our God, please help us. Please help us, Father. Poor Rebecca and George – just lost their own kids and now this…Dear God, please help this boy. Please help us, Father.

Lord, I wish I was strong enough. I wish I had my old strength.

“Again!”

“Come on. Fight, buddy. Keep it up!” Owen said. “It ain’t your time yet, kid. It ain’t your time yet.”

“Again. More!”

“Be Kobe, buddy. Be Jellybean now!”

“Give it all you got,” I squealed.

The boy performing the Heimlich, weeping now, let go of Derek and tore off the bloodied shirt he was wearing. One of those basketball shirts. Then, he let out one of the loudest shouts I’ve ever heard. It must have been the Lord’s strength – giving him the power of Sampson in that moment. He picked Derek back up, and gave him another three jabs, howling with each one.

One.

Two.

And three.

Then, a piece of bubble gum came shooting out of Derek’s mouth. He fell to the ground, gasping, wheezing, fighting for air. I immediately went down to perform mouth-to-mouth. Like I did back at St. George’s.

Stanley McCorty, age 10, fell to the ground.

Taylor O’Brien, age 11, ran over and embraced him.

Owen Walston, death by car accident, 2006, hovered his hands over Derek’s face. Trembling.

A few breaths later and little Derek’s eyes were bright again.

And together, we wept.

Derek Walston, age 11, lived.