In search of my sneakers, I move Smoke’s cut off one of the chairs hoping to find them underneath. Nope. Not there. I place his cut back where I found it when something falls to the floor. I think it’s a picture until I realize it’s an ultrasound. Morgan Faith Clark is the name on the top left corner. The date is from last year.

“What the hell is this?” I ask myself out loud. And why does Smoke have it?

When I hear Smoke’s heavy stomp, I tuck the photo back into his cut just as he opens the front door.

“Come out here,” he says.

“I can’t find my sneakers.”

“You don’t need them,” he assures me.

The last thing I’m expecting is to be led out to the porch and presented with a large standing easel. But that’s what’s waiting for me on the far-left side. It has paint from past creations splattered on it all around the legs. It’s secondhand, which to me, makes it even better, having already lived another life.

“What’s that for?” I finally ask.

“It’s for painting,” Smoke says sarcastically, leaning against the door. “Thought you’d know that.”

“I got that much, but why is it here?” My feet don’t wait for his response. In fact, I’m already across the deck inspecting the materials by the time the question leaves my mouth.

Stretched canvas. Several bottles of Acrylic paint. Primary colors only with a larger bottle of white paint and wooden palate for mixing colors. There’s also a water dish already filled to the top on the side table and several rags in the holder connecting the two front legs. A dozen or so paint brushes of various sizes sit in a cylinder attached to the side of the easel.

“Do you paint?” I ask because even after our conversation, I can’t possibly believe this is all here for me.

“No,” Smoke answers with a small laugh. “But, you’re about as good at being bored as I am. Zelda told me you mentioned you’ve wanted to paint. Thought you might like to try.”

I don’t know what his endgame is here. All I know is that I want to be mad. I want to rage on him and tell him that trying to occupy my time until my death isn’t going to work. I want to tell him to shove this entire easel up his murdering ass, but another part of me is itching to give it a shot. Tears prick at my eyes, but I keep my back to Smoke. I won’t give him my fear, and I sure as hell won’t give him my joy.

I wonder if Dr. Ida ever wanted to both thank someone and stab them at the same time. “So, this is a bribe, so I’ll be less difficult? Because I don’t know if a few paints are going to do the trick.” When I’m sure the threat of tears is gone, I turn around and stop just in time to see the screen door flap shut.

Smoke’s the one gone now.

I turn back to the easel and run my hand over the blank canvas. I look out over the porch and close my eyes. I breathe in the fresh air. I observe the way the sunlight feels on my face. I open them again and I’m already popping the tops off the paints and mixing the colors until I get the results I want. I choose a brush, dip it in the water, and shake off the excess.

Then, I’m gone. I’m in another world. One without fear. Or ankle bombs. Or fathers who abandon their children, or men who’d rather take lives than save them. In this world, only I and the canvas exist.

For a very short time, I am free.

Smoke

I’ve been trying to get a hold of Griff with no fucking luck. I know he said he’d reach out to me but I need to know how much closer his people are to finding Frank. I close the phone and sigh.

I need to know how much time is left.

I go outside for a smoke. Frankie’s still at the easel, where she’s been for the last several hours. Her foot’s tapping to the beat of the song on the radio, and she’s singing along. Her voice isn’t that of an angel. It’s pretty fucking horrific, actually, but I find myself watching her anyway as she sways from side to side while painting away.

I don’t know what I expected her to paint or why. I didn’t give it all that much thought when I bought the damn thing from the art store in town. I just wanted to keep her occupied so she’d stop asking questions, stop wanting to tell me stories. Stop making me like her. Want her.

The problem is that she’s stopped making the effort, but I still find myself liking her.

Wanting her.

I light my smoke, and my foot brushes against a canvas drying in the sun on the top step. I crouch down and turn my head to get a better view of what it is. It’s a very large and very realistic looking eye. A blueish circle lines the bottom giving it the appearance of being tired.

Damn. She’s good. It isn’t just an eye either. Inside the pupil is where the real art begins. It’s a landscape of some sort. No, it’s here. The prison yard. Only, it’s different. The sky an apocalyptic-looking orange with brown clouds.

I stand up to take in the bigger picture. I take a drag of my cigarette and choke out a cough when I see the blood. The bodies strewn about what looks like a prison yard turned battlefield. In the very center is a man carrying a woman.

Holy shit. It’s me. It’s us.

More specifically, it’s me... carrying Frankie into Hell.