All day it weighs on my mind. "You have to come home. We need you... you can save us all." I am distracted helping Bobby out at the hotdog stand and burn several dogs.

"Something on your mind?" he asks, feeding the charred meat to Lila.

I shrug.

The days are colder now and I'm thankful for Little Bobby's jacket and gloves, although standing in front of the grill keeps me warm. But now Bobby's handing me a hot dog with the works and telling me to go have a seat. The guys at the discount electronics boutique next to the Dollar Store are on their lunch break, which usually starts off the "lunch rush."

Sitting on the bed of Bobby's truck, I stare in the distance thinking rather than eating. On the one hand, I would like to see my mother again, but I can't imagine she'd be willing to forgive me for killing her husband. I can't even forgive me. Even after all he did...

Would she welcome me home with open arms? Her son, the murderer?

Hell, she probably wouldn't even recognize me.

It's just one more reason not to go home.

Of course, other scenarios play out in my head. One where my mother thought I'd been dead all these years, killed by the same maniac who killed her husband: she sees me, her face blank with disbelief as I walk up the driveway, until she finally recognizes that it's me, her son, I'm alive, and I'm back, and then she's weeping and running crazily down the driveway to hug me and finally I'm home and that emptiness which has accompanied me for so long disappears with a painful pop and I'm crying too...

I'm crying in real life, not just my imagination. I slap the tears away before anyone can see. 

(Lila saw, but she's just a dog)

I never let myself think about that. Never never never. I couldn't go back home, so I saved myself that pain by not thinking about it. Now, because of those stupid dreams, I'm thinking about it. I shouldn't think about it. I should keep on going south, like I had planned.

(And what if you're in the south and you're still killing people? They're big on the death penalty in Texas. They might not even let you see your mom again before they executed you.)

But...

What if?

What if my mother is in trouble? What if she knows something that could help me stop killing people?

"One dog with ketchup on it."

I am broken from my thoughts by a loud, clipped voice. Bobby's customer is a police officer. His eyes are obscured by sunglasses and his blue uniform is free of wrinkles. Instinctively I hunch down and start eating, hoping he didn't notice me.

Too late.

"That your boy?" the officer asks, nodding at me.

Bobby looks over at me. "Yup."

"How old?"

Bobby doesn't skip a beat. "Sixteen." Bobby doesn't know that my sixteenth birthday is only a few weeks away. It's the same lie I would have told.

"You will need to avoid the police." That's what Kayla said in my dream last night. What if this cop wants to arrest me right now? See some proof of my age?

"How come he's not at school?" the cop asks.

Bobby slathers ketchup over the top of the hot dog and slides it over to the officer, accepts the cop's crisp five dollar bill and gives him change.

"He a drop out?" the police officer presses.

"Homeschooled," Bobby says, finally.

"Good." The officer's final words before climbing into his patrol car and driving away. Only when he is out of sight am I able to breathe normally.

I am quiet the rest of the day. Bobby accepts my silence on the long truck drive home. Home. I call it home now. It's not my home, I think as I throw something together for dinner while Bobby takes his afternoon nap. I remember my mother's cooking, and forget about what happened when my father came home. I remember those sunny afternoons in the kitchen with her. That is home. Not this.

At dinner Bobby says to me, "You know, the couch isn't very comfortable. If you want you could sleep in Little Bobby's bedroom. Have a little space of your own."

I nod and chew thoughtfully, but I don't answer him.

It's time to go.