The abrasive sounds of the heavy metal music scraped Owen's ear drums much the same way his knife scraped the piece of wood in his hand. It was so loud Owen swore he could see the wood shavings on the table popping like kernels with the vibrations.

Though not particularly fond of death metal, he put it on whenever something other than desire brought him to the garage to carve. It made his anger feel smaller and more manageable by comparison. Normally, he didn't play it at this volume, but the walls were insulated enough to prevent the noise from upsetting Ethan. And Owen wasn't in the mood to think.

Instead he let his fingers take over, enjoying the familiar feeling of the rough block of wood and the warm grip of the knife handle in his left palm. He was in the process of carving an elephant requested by one his favorite customers. Lucinda, a woman in her mid-thirties, was always stopping by his stall at the craftsmen's fair to purchase his carvings as gifts for her widespread family. But this was a special project; a hand-carved mobile that would hang above the crib of her soon-to-be arriving baby.

She was willing to pay $150 for it; more than five times what his other pieces usually went for and, besides the money, he didn't want to let her or her baby down. Looking at the wooden bear and giraffe he had already done—soon to be joined by the elephant—he couldn't help but wonder if his dad had done the same when he was expecting a son.

"Yeah, right," Owen thought darkly.

Owen had been ten when his mom broke the news to him that his dad had left, that he wasn't coming back. He was still young enough to cry, to yell that she was wrong, to throw things, break them, and then lock himself in his room. But he had been old enough to remember.

Old enough to remember his mom crying on the phone that night, speaking to an answering machine that provided no answers, begging him to come back. Old enough to remember telling a recently-diagnosed Ethan, four-years-old at the time, who had just blinked stupidly at him until Owen pinched him hard enough to make him cry; so that he and his mom weren't the only ones miserable.

And he had been old enough to remember sitting on this very stool in this garage—his dad's workshop—watching his father carve. He could still see clearly in his mind's eye the life that his dad created out of blocks of shapeless wood, watching in a sort of trance the way different blades could create whole new dimensions, and asking him in a little kid voice, "Dad, will you teach me?"

To his dad's credit, though Owen wasn't sure how much it was really worth, his dad had always been willing to teach him. From the time Owen had asked at the age of seven, when his hands still lacked the coordination of an adult and he was at risk of cutting off the tips of his fingers, his dad had painstakingly taught him to carve. Though he was by no means a pro when his dad left three years later, he had learned enough to continue teaching himself. Now at sixteen, he was apprenticing at a local carpenter shop. It was basic stuff, kitchen cabinets and tables, but it gave him a chance to practice and the extra money was welcome.

Lost in thought, Owen angled the knife too much and nicked his pointer finger. With a grunt of pain, he placed the cut to his mouth to apply pressure, getting the sharp tang of metal mixed with the musky taste of wood on his tongue.

On his workbench, his phone began to ring. He turned down the music and said a muffled, "Hello."

"Asshat, what's up!" crowed Jared on the other end. "Where'd you take off to today? You left Kyle and I to fend for ourselves."

"Family emergency," Owen replied. But with his fingers to his mouth it came out as "Amly emgemthcee."

Jared caught the gist though—he and Kyle were used to it by now.

"I thought today was your day off?"

"You and me both," grumbled Owen, taking his finger away to inspect it. It was no longer bleeding.

"Well, there's a party at the quarry tonight. You coming?"

A few times each summer, kids from Owen's school gathered at the quarry to drink and have a bonfire. This would be the first of the season.

"I dunno," said Owen, thinking about how well things had gone the last time he left his mom alone.

"Dude, c'mon. It's one night. Besides, you didn't really get your contracted day off. The way I see it, you still have eight hours to cash in."

Jared had a point. Even though Owen hadn't wanted to go to the carnival in the first place, at least it had been somewhere other than home or work.

"I heard Emma Reynolds is going to be there," added Jared slyly.

Owen's stomach did a somersault. He had been trying to talk to Emma Reynolds for months, but every time he tried his tongue seemed to curl backwards and make speech impossible. The quarry would be the perfect place to try again, and even if he chickened out at least he could admire her from afar, as he had done all last year.

Emma, with her short dark hair and red lips, floated through high school in a beautiful, yet unobtrusive way. People liked her because she was one of those rare people who was brave enough to just be herself. Who got invited to parties but didn't see the need to insert herself into drama; who was smart without being a geek, who was kind because it was her nature. Owen's heart beat quicker just thinking about her.

"Yeah," said Owen with a soaring feeling of finality. "I'll be there." It was late anyway; Ethan would be asleep and most likely not need him until the morning when his mom would, in all likelihood, do something else to set him off.

"Good," said Jared as if it was never really a question. "Kyle and I are headed over in about an hour. Do you need a ride?"

"No, I'll just walk." The extra time would give him the opportunity to think of something intelligent to say to Emma.

"See you then."

Owen set down his half-carved elephant and set about sweeping up the floor. Even though it set his stomach churning at all the things that could come tumbling incoherent out of his mouth, the prospect of seeing Emma tonight had brightened his mood considerably. He was even smiling as he locked up the garage and walked back to the house. But as soon as he walked through the door, all that euphoria evaporated.

A hot surge of anger rushed in to fill the void, blistering him from the inside out. Ethan was sitting on the couch once again playing with the iPad, the screen the only source of the light in the dark room. He should have been in bed over an hour ago.

Owen stormed into the kitchen to find his mom sitting at the warped wooden table, staring into space. He cleared his throat loudly. She jumped, knocking over the plastic cup in front of her with a clatter.

"Owen," she said. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Why is he still awake?" he demanded, gesturing towards the living room and cutting straight to the chase.

His mother's face flushed and she stood up to walk to the sink so she wouldn't have to look at him.

"He just seemed happy. I—I didn't want to disturb him."

"No," Owen snapped. "You didn't want to deal with him so you let him stay up until I came back so I could put him to bed!" His fist came down on the counter and she jumped again, now forced to look him.

As ruddy as her face was before, it was completely white now. Owen couldn't even take satisfaction in the flash of guilt across her features.

"It's just been such a long day and—" her voice broke. "I'm trying my best, Owen."

Once upon a time, the defeat in her voice might have appeased his anger. But those days were long gone.

"You're not trying at all," Owen seethed, his hands instinctively balling up at his sides. "You haven't tried since dad left. Well guess what. He's. Not. Coming. Back."

Something in his mom seemed to snap. She straightened, throwing her shoulders back and narrowing her eyes. "Watch your tone."

Owen gave a harsh laugh, feeling all of his pent up frustration breach the dam he always constructed to hold it back. "Look who finally started acting like a parent."

His mom flinched as though he had struck her and for once Owen didn't care. He stabbed his finger in her direction. "Whether you like it or not, you have a son who needs you. Who will always need you. So you better start figuring it out because I won't always be around to pick up your slack."

Owen turned on his heel, all thought of asking to go out for the night was gone. As far as he was concerned he didn't need her permission any longer.

"Owen!"

He ignored her, striding back into the living room and breathing hard. He spared only a quick glance at Ethan, who was staring back at him in a confused sort of way, before walking back outside and slamming the door behind him.

The heat still hadn't relinquished its grip on the town though the sun had set long ago. The sharp, acidic scent of baking asphalt and garbage petrifying in the humidity hit Owen like a brick wall as he stepped outside. A dog barked half-heartedly several houses down as though it couldn't muster up the energy to create sound in the suffocating temperature.

Owen kicked a half-crushed soda can in front of him as he walked, hands thrust deep into his pockets. He was almost glad for the heat. It made it easier to hold onto his anger. And anger kept the guilt at bay.

But really, why should he feel guilty? He wasn't doing his mom—or Ethan—any favors by pretending everything was all right. His mom needed to hear it because what he had said was true. Well, mostly true.

He would always be there for his brother, but Owen had a life too; he had plans, ones that didn't involve him being a nanny for the rest of his life. He wanted to go to college, have a girlfriend, get a job and not sit around waiting for shit to hit the fan. Was that so wrong?

Owen kicked the can hard so it clattered under a bush and out of sight. With it no longer around to distract him, he came to a stop and looked up, letting out a huff of anger.

In his desire to get as far from his house as possible, he had gone the wrong way. The quarry was on the other side of town and now it would take him twice as long to get there.

Turning on his heel and resigning himself to a long walk, Owen paused at the sound of something just on the edge of hearing. It too was muffled by the oppressive heat, but as he held his breath and strained to hear, he felt a familiar feeling prick his subconscious.

Suddenly, the sound swelled and he could make out the music clearly, notes washing over him like a much needed breeze and raising goosebumps on his arms.

From off in the distance, came the achingly haunting sounds of a violin.

***************
So what do you guys think?? Not sure I like the flow of this chapter all that much so I would definitely appreciate any comments!

Predictions? Let me know :)

Thanks for reading!!