Chapter 1
 
He’d known the instant his fist hit the drywall.
Bullshit.  He’d known it long before that.  Long before the pain exploded in his knuckles, expanded the length of his forearm.  Long before the dust and bits of debris had settled onto the beige carpet.  Long before the moment of shared, stunned silence, her eyes widening in surprise, then fear, then desperate resignation.  He’d known more than three years ago, when he’d first spied that hunger in her eyes, that need to have a child.
History was doomed to repeat.
As Jimmy’s cries had risen behind him in a toddler’s confused and terrified wail, and the final light of hope seemed to flicker and disappear in her exhausted stare, Jim had done the only thing he knew how to do.  The only thing he’d been doing for the past thirteen years.
He'd run.
 
He’d sprinted out the door, crashing down the steps three at a time.  Across the courtyard and down the shaded alley to his pick-up, revving the engine before escaping in a peal of worn tires.
He’d driven almost without seeing, without registering the signs and streets, rounding tight corners in wild swings, flying through intersections, oblivious to the squeal of brakes and chorus of horn blasts behind him.  Accelerating.  Pounding the steering wheel with the palm of his left hand.
He'd fled Boulder, heading west up the narrow canyon that twisted and turned before emerging into the bright vista of snow-capped peaks and the scattered, eclectic houses of Nederland, nestled in the bosom of the Rockies. 
But he hadn’t stopped.  Couldn’t stop.  Chased by ghosts pushing him onward and upward, ever higher.  He’d left Nederland behind, pavement becoming gravel, becoming packed earth, becoming two faded ruts spanning a mountain meadow.
Those ruts had brought him here, amid the scattered remains of an old, abandoned mine, the ruts disappearing into a small pond formed between skeletal buildings, pristine water reflecting gray rocks and crystalline skies. 
Jim silenced the engine, leaving only the faint rush of the breeze against the window. 
After a few moments of listening to the wind, he climbed from the cab, leaned against the front of the truck.  Bending down, he snatched a pebble from between his boots, and flung it side-arm into the pond.  A cold breeze fell from the snow-capped peaks, fought the sun against his skin. 
All those bedtime stories, snuggled on the couch, reading Go Dog Go or Papa Get the Moon for Me, Jimmy burrowed between the two of them.  All those evening walks, her hand in his, Jimmy tucked in Jim's arms, pointing, excited, as they watched a Great Horned Owl glide away on silent wings.   Those Sunday mornings, twisted in the blankets together, Jimmy playing with his stuffed squirrel on his mother's belly while she dozed. 
All of them.
Gone.
He bent again, dredged another stone from the packed gravel, and tossed this one further, disturbing the reflection of blue skies and rugged mountain tops.
Jim had first come across this high, alpine pond almost twenty years ago while hiking with his father, bathed in bright sun and steady breeze as they'd crossed the surrounding meadow, awe-struck at the beauty of the flowers.  He'd asked his father the name of each blossom.  His father had known the easy ones like Indian Paintbrush or Alpine Buttercup.  The rest he'd made up, names like Indian Toilet Paper, or Elf Cap, or Yellow-Headed-Kid-That-Asks-Too-Many-Questions. 
Over the years it had become an increasingly frequent ritual, summer Saturdays escaping to this glorious testament to the beauty of life some five thousand feet above the awkward silence of their apartment. 
His father would hoist him onto the massive boulder that towered like a sentinel above the meadow grass.  They'd perch on the edge, feet dangling, and gaze across the pond, sun warm on their backs, as they discussed life.
More than once the conversation centered on Jim being bullied at school, classmates taunting him for his cheap jeans and generic sneakers, a factory-worker’s kid drowning in Boulder’s sea of privilege and wealth.
His father emphasized that when someone hurt him, whether it be deliberate taunts or simply misplaced words, Jim shouldn’t get angry.  “I know it’s hard, but try not to get angry at them, Jimmy.  They probably have their own issues, you know?  Stuff going on that makes them act the way they do.” He put his arm around Jim, tugged him close, shoulder to shoulder, in a brief side-ways hug.  “Maybe try to see the world through their eyes.” 
Teaching moments, his father trying to mold Jim. 
Look how that’d turned out.
Jim had always envisioned someday bringing Jimmy up to this mountain sanctuary.  A future Jimmy, Jim's vision of what a ten-year-old Jimmy might be.  Perhaps as quiet and introspective as Jim had been, an old soul, constantly watching the world.  Perhaps to share a teaching moment of their own.
History repeating.
Jim wiped the seeping ooze from his scabbed knuckles onto his jeans and glared at the water.  Water deep and dark enough to hold secrets. 
He climbed back into his truck and started the engine.  The sun beat down on the cab, bathed it in rays pure and unadulterated in the high altitude.  Letting his head fall back, he released a long, stuttering sigh.  If only he could stay here.  Enveloped in this warm cocoon.  No past.  No present.  No future.  Eyes closed in an extended blink.
But it was time to do something.
Eyes squeezed tight; he revved the engine.  Hand on the shifter.  Just pull it into drive…
He bit his lip, tasted blood on his tongue. Salt from his tears. 
He could do this.   He just had to be man enough.  Brave enough.  Strong enough to do what was right.  For Jimmy.
     He exhaled a slow, emptying sigh.  Slid his foot away from the accelerator, let the engine fall to a gentle idle, and opened his eyes.
And found only silence and white.
 
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