Book Update  –

Hey, so I have good news. My book Letters From Jasper has a revise and resubmit! Inside I’m so happy! They essentially wanted me to add more of what I call “the connective tissue” so I’ve just been going through and adding that. With that in mind, I tweaked the opening of my book. I hate posting the same thing, but if you’d read it and let me know if it’s working, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks for all of your support! – Tony

Chapter 1 – Past Meets Present

 

There’s only so much crap a person can pack into the back of a U-Haul, and Omar Watson is officially past the limit. Before him, boxes and boxes of memories are stacked to the ceiling, like a cheap cardboard city, threatening to topple down faster than his engagement to Monica. She dumped him about a month ago, and despite many bottles of liquor, many mouthfuls of joints, and many reassurances from friends, nothing feels right, and Omar is pretty sure nothing ever will again.

Omar grits his teeth and wipes his brow, taking one last look at what his consumerism is reduced to. How thirty years of life can be shoved away in boxes as if he is putting toys away in a daycare bin. What a cosmic joke. He sighs, long and heavy, then reaches up and yanks the door down, revealing the Two Idiots and a Truck logo, taps the back of the truck, and sends his two idiots off with a half-hearted wave.

“See you in California,” Omar mutters before adding, “Don’t break my shit.”

The moving truck rumbles forward, kicking up gravel that, for some reason, kicks up memories. His breakup with his fiancée, Monica, flashes in his mind’s eye, sharp and unwelcome, like pigeon shit splattering on an unsuspecting bald head.

“I can’t keep fixing you,” Monica says with tears running down her face as she turns away. “…How can I expect you to love me when you can’t even love yourself?”

And to Omar, that’s what hurts the most. She’s right, of course—Monica is always right. He can’t love anyone because he can’t love himself. And you can hardly live life without love; it’s too long. It’s too treacherous. And frankly, it’s too damn lonely.

Omar shakes the memory off and jams his hand into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled plane ticket and stares at it intently. It’s the promise of tomorrow in the hands of today. Only a few more days, and he will officially leave Ohio behind and start his new life or at least escape his old one. His mother’s dead. His father’s a deadbeat, and all his friends have settled down and forgotten all the memories they shared. That L.A. sales job was his shot to bury his father’s failures, a fresh start where nobody knows his name. The kind of fresh start Omar needed, perhaps more than ever.

A cool breeze picks up, blowing leaves across the parking lot as Omar reaches behind his ear, produces a joint, lights it, and inhales long and slow, taking in the earthy, green taste. After craning his head to get one last look at the movers pulling out of the apartment complex, he begins the slow walk to his empty apartment, rubbing the ticket in his hand, missing the strange car approaching in the distance.

“California’s gonna be different,” Omar mutters, convincing no one, least of all himself. “I’ll make sure of it,” he adds.

Suddenly, Omar hears the faint rattle of a car rolling to a stop and slows his pace. He’s on the sidewalk but feels heat pouring off the tires. He can’t tell if the car wants to hit him or the driver is blind. His pulse races, and he feels a surge of panic. This universe already ruined his life; now it’s sending someone to finish him off. He freezes, waiting for whatever happens next.

“What the hell are you doing?!” says the voice defiantly from the window of the car.

Omar’s stomach drops as he hears the car door open and slam shut. The voice is gravelly, familiar in a way, like a song you haven’t heard in years, playing the memories of yesterday.

“I mean, I don’t do yoga, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how you do it, reaching up like you’re catching a fly ball.”

Omar’s hands fall to his side. He knows who the voice is; he just didn’t expect to see him.

“Man, you better tell that truck to turn around—they forgot to put my shit in there,” says the voice defiantly.

Omar exhales, still not believing it’s his father. But when he turns, he sees Jasper—his father—standing beside his beat-up grey Honda Civic, suitcase in one hand, can of Coke in the other. His car was parked on the sidewalk.

“Come on, man! Call them and tell them I gotta put my shit in there, and now that I think about it, shouldn’t you be with them too?” Jasper says with a grin.

Omar’s jaw clenches. Of all the people that could have run him over, his father was the last he expected. He lets out a nervous laugh and mutters, “You’ve gotta be shitting me,” loud enough for his father to hear before running a hand through his hair.

“What? Ain’t you excited to see your dad?! Come on, how long has it been?”

“Not long enough,” Omar rifles back before massaging his temples. Omar is shaking.

“What… what are you doing here? How… how did you know where I live?” Omar’s words come out harsher than he means.

Jasper lets out a genuine laugh he hopes will disarm. “Shit, man, you really think your father wouldn’t know where his son lives?”

Omar’s lip curls. “It’s news to me,” he says, finally getting a hold of his nerve.

Jasper scratches his chin and shrugs half-heartedly as if crashing his son’s life is no big deal. “Heard through the grapevine about you and Monica. Figured you might need some company on the drive out west.”

Omar’s eyebrows shoot up. “Drive? Company?”

Jasper nods toward his Civic. “Yeah, man. I’m thinking we hit the road together. It’ll be fun. Just like old times.”

Omar’s eyes temporarily bug out of his head.

“Fun? Fun? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Omar says, taking a few steps forward, the panic of “together” tightening his chest.

Jasper raises an eyebrow, tapping his suitcase. “Does it look like I’m joking?”

“No… it looks cheap.”

Omar’s mouth is ajar. Everything in the past month has been full of unfortunate surprises, but this one feels the most cruel.

“I’m moving across the country, Dad. You can’t just— I… I have a plane ticket. I… I have a plan.”

Jasper waves Omar’s objection away like it’s nothing. “It’s just money. I’ll pay for it. Forget the flight—hop in the car, we’ll drive and catch up with them movers. They’re driving like a bat out of hell; you better hope they don’t break your shit.”

Omar blinks slow.

“Come on, man, who doesn’t love a family road trip? It’s American as apple pie.”

Of all the things Jasper said, Omar decides to focus on that.

“Apple pie isn’t American!” Omar erupts.

“Shut up, you know what I mean,” says Jasper playfully.

Omar shakes his head, hoping it’ll knock the drama off him. Then he looks down at his crumpled ticket as if it might hold some answers. “Seriously, why… why are you here? We haven’t talked in years.”

Jasper’s grin falters for the briefest moment, his eyes softening. “You’re smart; there’s your answer. We haven’t spoken for years, and I’m fixin’ to change that,” Jasper says, now standing outside the car, opening the passenger door expectantly as if he were some sort of bellhop.

Omar can’t believe this shit. Honestly, whose father shows up out of the blue, nearly runs them over, makes a historically inaccurate reference, then opens their car door like the last five years meant nothing? He stares at Jasper like he just saw him step out of a UFO, too surprised to move.

“So, what do you say? Come on, man, it’s not like you have any shit here,” Jasper says. “We just watched it roll away.”

Omar snaps back into it. He looks down at the ground, his eyes fixating on a large stone, and wonders if he dropped it high enough onto his head, maybe it would kill him. Then he looks up and studies Jasper, his eyes teetering on the line between determination and pleading. There is something about the way he stands there, looking thinner and older—like a faded version of the man he once knew—that makes it clear something is off. And for some reason, he’s still holding his suitcase tight against his body as if it contains his life savings, instead of leaving it in his car. Omar’s shoulders stiffen, weighing his options while his thoughts race.

“Well… what do you say?” Jasper repeats.

Omar wants to say no. He wants to laugh in his father’s face, slam the door shut, and walk away without a second glance, like Jasper did to him all those years ago. But something in him stops that—something weak, maybe. Or maybe it’s the curiosity gnawing at him, the need to know what Jasper’s hiding. He’d get answers, even if it killed him. Misery does love company, after all, and Omar was feeling miserable.

“But what are you really doing here?” Omar asks, his voice now low, almost pleading. “I… I want the truth.”

Jasper’s grin returns, but there’s something different now. Something off. Something almost sad. His voice takes on a solemn tone.

“To be honest with you, I’ve got some news I need to share with you, and it’s the kind of news you oughta tell someone in person,” Jasper says. “So, what do you say? We’ll be in California by the time your movers arrive, and if you’d like, after this, you’ll never have to see me again. Sound fair?”

It did sound fair to Omar, but he couldn’t quite identify what was off. He remains quiet, letting Jasper sweat for once while he studies him.

His eyes trace the lines on his father’s face—have they always been there? They shift to the thinness in his frame—it looks like he must have lost fifty pounds, but he certainly didn’t exercise to do that; his skin was too flabby. And the suitcase he holds too close—like it contains more than just clothes. He can’t quite place it, but something is definitely wrong. Omar bites his lip and takes one look at his apartment, then back to his father. He had already checked out, and his plan was just to lay low before his plane, maybe rent a hotel, but this… this was something new. Something unexpected. Then, he nods slowly, relenting.

“Fine,” Omar mutters, then points a finger at his father. “But I’m not doing this for you.” Omar pauses. “And we can’t be late; otherwise, I might lose my job.”

Jasper exhales sharply, relieved. “That’s alright, I don’t need you to do it for me, and we’ll be on time—hell, early even. You know I drive fast.”

Omar almost lets himself laugh but quickly hardens his body. He can’t be open too soon. He needs to figure out his angle.

“…Alright, fuck it.”

With a final glance at the ticket, Omar grabs the last of his things, slinging a backpack over his shoulder, and heads toward his father’s car. He hesitates for a moment before yanking open the passenger door and throwing his bag in the back seat. Then he slumps into the passenger seat and attempts the impossible, getting comfortable in an uncomfortable situation, his fingers tightening around the ticket.

Jasper hops in the driver’s seat, cracks open the Coke can with a satisfying hiss, and takes a long sip before tossing the can onto the back floor. He strums the steering wheel, content, then turns to Omar.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road, huh? West Coast, here we come,” says Jasper.

“…whoo-hoo…” says Omar with the enthusiasm of a fresh lobotomy. Jasper then turns the ignition, and the car roars to life with a sputter. The wheels crunch over the gravel as they pull away, and the apartment complex shrinks in the rearview mirror. Omar watches it grow smaller and smaller, disappearing behind them, just like everything else in his life.

They drove in silence for what felt like hours. Omar now sits with his arms and legs crossed, making him appear like a human ‘X’ while his forehead rests on the passenger side window, seeing the Ohio countryside blow by in a constant blur. His eyes were dark, sleepless circles, and the unspoken tension of it all made his head feel like a basketball in the hands of a highly skilled player. He is busy doing what he does best—tuning his father out—and deeply regretting letting him talk his way onto this trip. But no matter what he does, he can’t help but wonder what the news is that Jasper wants to… needs to share.

Every few miles, Jasper looks like he is about to say something, but then he just stares out the window instead, leaving Omar alone with his thoughts and the dull roar of the highway. More than anything, Jasper wants to confess to Omar. To tell him why he joined the trip in the first place. To apologize for their rather inglorious breakup. To share his secret that he knows will change everything, especially his son’s life.

But how can he share a secret so large when his son can barely acknowledge his existence? How can he share news so bad that it will make his son feel anything but good? Often, the past has ropes that keep you bound, and Jasper is caught struggling against its snare. He is surprised Omar hasn’t commented on his decline, his shriveled appearance, his premature aging. Soon, he will have to tell him, but now, he’ll need to win his trust. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Jasper clears his throat.

“Thanks, Omar.”

Omar doesn’t even look up. “For what?”

“For letting me come on this trip. It… it means a lot.”

Omar shrugs, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Yeah. No problem.”

Jasper rolls down the window, letting the awkward tension blow out with the breeze.

“So… why California?”

Omar’s jaw tightens. “New job.”

Jasper, clearly trying to break the silence, presses on. “Doing…?”

“Work.”

Jasper tilts his head back, and his hands flick up.

“…can’t you get work here too?”

“Dad!” Omar snaps, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Just drop it, okay? You said you had something to tell me—so stop beating around the bush and tell me. What is it?”

Jasper shoots back in his seat and glances at his suitcase. “Yeah… I’m just waiting for the right time.”

Omar shakes his head. “When the hell is that going to be? Because time with you is a funny thing. It took you long enough to show your face.”

Jasper sighs and crunches over like he took a punch to the gut. “I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. You don’t know how bad I feel about that.”

“You’re right, I don’t know.”

Jasper exhales and focuses on the road.

“Look, when we grab lunch, I’ll tell you there, okay? I’m just waiting for the right moment. Food might… will help.”

Omar grimaces, panic mixing with impatience blooming in his chest. “When do you want to stop?”

Jasper looks at the gas gauge and notices the needle, a hair’s length from E, looking like a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode.

“Soon.”

“Okay…” says Omar, his fingers tapping the ticket.

Jasper grits his teeth while his eyes dart back to the road as he wonders when in the hell they will find an exit. Just then, a blue sign appears like a dot on the horizon that must have come down from the heavens above:

BP Gas Station 2 miles

“About damn time,” Jasper mutters as he relaxes into his seat. “Alright, kid, we’re getting off here soon… real soon, and I’ll tell you what’s going on. I just gotta get past these—oh, what the fuck.”

A truck merges into the passing lane ahead of them, pacing the truck in the slow lane. To their right, a black Audi pulls alongside them, driven by a lady glued to her phone, while two more trucks pull up behind, officially boxing them in. Jasper sucks his lip, silently cursing the entire trucking industry, and compares their trucks to dinosaurs, wishing they’d go extinct. He steals a glance at the gas gauge again—it’s deep in the red. His pulse quickens, and he slaps Omar’s arm.

“Get her attention. She’s gotta let us over… we can’t miss this exit,” Jasper says, jabbing his finger toward the woman.

Omar doesn’t move. Instead, he stares at a photo of his fiancée, Monica, wishing he was the new guy in her latest picture.

“Come on, man! You ain’t gonna make the move without gas,” Jasper snaps, his eyes flicking between the mirror and the road ahead. “We’re boxed in.”

Omar’s shoulders slump and he looks up at the lady. Big, black sunglasses cover much of her face, making her look like a fly. Her head is tilted down, and she stares at her phone while driving seventy miles per hour, somehow managing to keep her car between the lines.

“She’s texting, and you can’t pass her? Have you tried using your blinker?” Omar deadpans.

Jasper squeezes the steering wheel as if he could wring out some extra patience. “Of course I did! What do you think, I can’t drive? I drove here!” He flips on the blinker, but the Audi holds steady.

His eyes dart to the gas gauge again, and he mutters under his breath before glancing over at the woman. “Move the hell outta the way!” he shouts, hammering the horn.

Omar brings his hands to his ears and scowls. “She can’t hear you, you know.”

“It ain’t from a lack of trying!” Jasper erupts and wipes the sweat from his head. “She kind of reminds me of you.”

Omar shakes his head and returns to his phone. About a thousand yards out, the exit ramp appears like an oasis in the desert with all the allure of freedom. Tasting salvation, Jasper taps the accelerator and takes a deep gulp as his eyes focus on his exit. It was time to pull a fast one on this bitch. He presses his heel down till his foot feels the floor, and the car zooms forward, sending the men back into their seats with a whoosh.

But no progress is made.

Despite staring at her phone, the lady finds a way to block his exit and match his speed. No matter what he does, he cannot shake her; she is glued to his side like a logo on a shoe. And as Jasper’s last morsel of patience burns out, that’s when it all happens. Jasper’s nostrils flare: he slams down the automatic window button, shoves his son back into the seat, reaches out the window, and gives the lady the bird.

“Move the fuck over!” he shouts.

It is as American as Johnny Appleseed holding a firework while riding a bald eagle. Jasper holds the middle finger triumphantly, ignoring the road and focusing on the lady, hoping she will get the message. But when she finally cranes her neck and sees the middle finger, she does the most inconceivable thing. She smiles and waves, which has the effect of short-circuiting Jasper. His jaw drops, his face twists, and he looks as if he has just seen a ghost, temporarily frozen with disbelief. Unfortunately, for Jasper and Omar, something directly ahead of them is much more menacing.

“Watch out!” Omar screams, throwing his hands over his face. Standing smack dab in the middle of the road is a ten-point buck delivered from Karma herself.

Jasper, still staring at the lady, doesn’t see it coming. And he doesn’t have to; his other senses do the heavy lifting.

WHAM!

He feels the impact of hitting the buck at seventy miles per hour, which sends shockwaves straight to his seat.

He hears the shattering glass cry out with sudden, deafening force.

He smells the blood spraying across the windshield, mixing with the cool rush of outdoor air that slices through the open window.

When he looks up, Jasper sees the world has flipped upside down as the car continues to roll until it finally crashes into a ditch with a bone-rattling thud.

As the dust settles and the shock sinks in, Omar turns his head, his body aching from the crash. He takes one long, hard look at his father and back to the plane ticket resting in his hand.

 

 

 

Chapter 2 The Briefcase

 

There’s always a moment where you know you fucked up, but you don’t want to accept it. So you distract yourself. You think of everything that could happen instead of everything that did happen. It’s a coping mechanism. A lie disguised as a thin layer of hope you’re dead set on making true. And hiding behind this thin layer of hope, Omar snaps out of it, the reality fading in, one wave of nausea at a time.

The world was spinning. Omar claws his way from beneath the shattered front passenger window, glass crunching under his palms. His fingers fumble for his glasses, the thin frames slipping and tilting as he shoves them onto his face. His mind is morphing. Hardly believing that the accident happened yet still trying to convince himself that it did. But when he came to, he saw the destruction.

What was once a reliable, run-of-the-mill Honda Civic looked as if it was in a monster truck jam—only it wasn’t the monster truck—it was the car that monster trucks run over resembling a ball of tin foil ripe for the trash can.

The trail of destruction told the story. The shattered glass, the deer guts, and little pieces of plastic led to a smoldering car carcass. The worst part was, the deer, that damn deer, lay off in the distance, its head still gazing at the car, judging them even in death.

The door rumbles forward and clatters open as Jasper falls out, his face hitting the dirt, yet his can of Coke held perfectly upright. He dusts himself off. Beads of sweat, mixed with blood, roll down his face as he stands facing the horizon, glaring.

“That fucking bitch!” Jasper screams while cracking a new Coke open. “Can you believe this shit!” He sticks his middle finger in the air, still not learning his lesson.

Omar freezes, taking it all in. Then his face gets sharp as he narrows on Jasper.

“Dad, what the fuck were you thinking?!” Omar huffs, his voice rising. “Did you not fucking see it?”

If looks could kill, Jasper would be dead. His head snaps back at Omar.

“What do you think? Do you think I wanted to crash my car? Right here in the ass crack of America? You think I wanted that?” Jasper says with a frown. “Come on now, go easy on me, Omar; I didn’t bring any hemorrhoid cream!”

Omar clenches his fist.

“Damn it, dad! Why would you insist on coming if you’re going to do this!” Omar screams, his eyes still watching the car wheel turn.

Jasper shakes.

“Damn it!” Jasper yells before kicking a tire.

“I mean, really, dad, is this what you wanted?”

Jasper bites his lip.

“Just shut up!”

Jasper then reaches down, picks up a piece of glass, and throws it at the car. Then he takes a deep breath and turns to Omar.

“Sorry… are you okay?” he asks, his voice falling softer now.

Omar looks at him with dead eyes and shakes his head.

“Scratched but fine, and you?” Omar offers quickly, before turning away from Jasper.

“I got a fucking headache and a new hatred for deer. Good thing I got my Coke,” rifles Jasper right before spitting on the ground.

He rips a sip of his Coke as sweat drips down his forehead. Omar crosses his arms and stares at the can of Coke as if he were trying to disintegrate it with his eyes. Everything he hated about his father was minimized to this can of Coke.

Ever since Omar was a boy, he knew only one quality about his dad: To Jasper, every problem in life could be cured with a can of Coke.

Got a sore throat? Have a Coke.

Scraped knee? Have a Coke.

Your collarbone sticking out with blood spluttering, ruining your brand-new, whiter-than-snow dress shirt? Have a Coke.

Want to ruin your only son’s fresh start? Have a fuckin’ Coke.

He could have been the company’s best spokesman—had he not been a salesperson for the Pepsi company. It was the great irony of his life. Jasper takes another sip and clenches his jaw.

“Ahh, forget it. Everything’s got an expiration date,” Jasper says ominously, shaking his head as he surveys the deer, or what was left of the deer, and the car, or what was left of the car. Jasper takes another sip and smiles.

Omar stares at the sky, gut twisting.

Standing on the other side of acceptance, Omar paces around the car, his hand gripping his chest tightly. His breath catches, sharp and ragged, fighting a panic attack. He leans against the bridge’s support cylinder, searching for a focal point to ground him in the present moment.

Unfortunately, the only thing that stood out was the deer’s white eyeball, which seemed to stare right through him, calling him a bastard. Because when you hit a deer on the highway, you’re a bastard. And if you’re Omar Watson, who grew up with a dad who was hardly home, you’re a bastard.

Omar shuts his eyes, trying to engage his other senses, listening to the wind, feeling the sun’s warmth on his skin, and inhaling the earthy scent of the nearby grass, but nothing seems to work. He slumps against the cylinder, trying to escape the deer’s eye.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Omar thinks to himself, still focused on the eye. “My life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way,” he screams inside his head. He had it all planned out.

After the wedding was called off, Omar wanted an escape, he wanted a new adventure. So he thought about heading out west like the Cowboys did.

California was said to be the land of opportunity, the land where dreams come true. The land that had been so sung about, so written about, so seemingly special that it had to mean something, if not from sheer force alone. Omar wasn’t sure what, but he hoped it was true.

He needed to jumpstart his life. He needed help. He needed a fresh start. So, thoughtlessly, he applied for the first job he saw. A door-to-door knife salesman, selling knives sharper than the lies his dad peddled… the kind of job that would take anyone with a pulse. Fortunately for Omar, he had a pulse. He accepted the job without giving it much thought, renting another dream without actually dreaming. Because dreaming is scary, and Omar is scared.

And yet here he was—carless, fiancée-less, and rudderless—confronting the sober reality that this wasn’t a dream at all, just another nightmare… one he could not wake up from.

“Ahhhh, that hits the spot!” Jasper burps as he crushes his can of Coke, ripping the tab off and stomping it to the ground. It was his signature move. He then looks over at his son, noticing his chest rising and falling. His eyes wrinkle with concern.

“You alright?” says Jasper.

“Am I alright? Am I alright? My life is fuckin’ ruined… again!” Omar snaps and rubs his temples. He continues, “You should have never come on this trip!”

Jasper sighs, frowns, and kicks at a random pebble, sending it bouncing off the road.

“Unbelievable…. you… you… ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, son, all your shit’s with the idiots; we’ll just go to the gas station and figure it out,” says Jasper, pointing to the nearby gas station.

“We can’t figure this out!” Omar protests.

“Sure, you can. That’s what you do in life—you figure it out; everything is figureoutable-You just gotta take action, son.”

Omar kicks gravel, jaw tight, his frustration igniting like a wildfire. “This ain’t; we’re completely fucked!—Even a genie in a bottle can’t figure this out!”

Jasper bites his tongue then releases his frustration.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m the bad guy for wanting to help,” Jasper scoffs. “The bad guy for wanting to reconnect with his son who never calls.”

“You’re the bad guy for hitting that fuckin’ deer!” Omar retorts. “And you never called me!”

Jasper rolls his eyes.

“What’s that deer doing on the road anyway?! Didn’t he know cars are here?” Jasper exhales deeply and regains his composure. Now, with his hands on his hips, his voice softens. “Can you help me grab my suitcase? I have something I need to show ya. Just my luck if that’s fucked too.”

Omar kicks up more dirt, sending a small cloud racing into the sky, and walks over to the car.

Breathing heavily, Omar surveys the wreckage, his rage arresting his body as he storms through the crash site like a tornado. He picks up bits of glass, car parts, and wrappers and sends them flying, one huff at a time. He was so mad, so pissed off, that he forgot his panic attack. His father’s charm worked.

Hidden nearly fifteen yards from the crash site, a glint of light catches his eye—his father’s black suitcase, now coated in a shallow layer of dust, was cracked open. He picks up the pace, all the while wondering what was so fuckin’ important. He imagines what his father is going to tell him. That he’s sorry about his Mom. That he regrets their falling out. And the entire time, Omar can’t help but think this is something they could have done over the phone. As Omar gets closer, his pace slows down when he notices an envelope addressed to him in his father’s neat cursive handwriting. It’s closed with a wax seal. His face frowns, and he holds it up to the light. “To Omar,” it reads. Omar holds the letter up to the light, hoping it will reveal its secrets.

“Omar, by now, you know the truth. I am …”

A roar echoes from the other side of the wreckage. “Find anything?”

Omar quickly conceals the letter and stuffs it back into the suitcase, slamming it shut. “Yeah… yeah… we’re good.”

After a beat, Jasper cries out,

“See any more Coke?”

“No!”

Omar casts a quick peek at the suitcase, feeling his stomach turn to mush while an icy shiver creeps up his spine. He then turns his head and sees Jasper squinting into the distance, shielding his eyes with one hand.

“Would you look at that! This gas station has a restaurant… and not just those bullshit smokies. We’ll grab some food and figure out how to get back on the road.”

Omar groans.

With an extra pep in his step, Jasper strides over to Omar, grabs his suitcase, and urges, “Come on. Seeing all that deer meat made me hungry,” says Jasper, rubbing his stomach.

Omar couldn’t help but feel nauseous at the thought and throws up. It splashes off the asphalt, to which Jasper says, “Good. Now you got some room.”

Omar shakes his head, feeling control of his life slip between his fingers once more.

Jasper then grabs Omar by the shoulder, and they march towards the gas station while the deer eye watches them, knowing what’s about to happen.

 

 

 

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