The sun had dipped low over the flat, golden stretch of Kansas farmland, bleeding streaks of burnt orange and deep lavender across the sky. Crickets began their quiet chorus in the grass, and the warm scent of hay and clover drifted in the breeze.
Inside the weathered old barn, Jayson hoisted a square bale of alfalfa like it weighed no more than a sack of feathers. He tossed it into the trough, dust catching in the light like powdered gold. The cattle, great slow-eyed Herefords, snuffled gratefully and jostled for space.
He paused at the door, one boot propped against the frame, watching the sun melt behind the silo. His hands, though callused, didn't belong to a normal farm boy. They could unmake mountains if he willed it. But here, now, he was just Jayson. Eighteen years old. Tall, broad-shouldered. Quiet. Wore flannel and spoke like everyone else in town—with a drawl that stretched like molasses when he was relaxed, clipped short when he was on edge.
"Jayson!" a voice called from the house. "You done out there?"
"Yeah, Ma!" he hollered back.
He made his way across the yard, his boots thudding on the hard-packed dirt. Mary Beth stood on the porch, hand on her hip, apron still dusted with flour from supper.
"We're outta butter n' coffee," she said, squinting down the driveway. "You mind runnin' into town real quick?"
"Sure thing." He leaned in to kiss her cheek, and she gave his arm a pat. "You want the good kind or the cheap one?"
She smirked. "You know which."
He took the old Jeep out of habit, more for the feel of the wheel than necessity—he could fly if he wanted to. Faster than any plane, stronger than the tides. But no one in Centerville needed to know that. They saw him as Mary Beth's boy, quiet and strong, always helpin' around the farms and never causin' trouble.
The town was three miles down a long, ribboning road lined with soybean fields and rusted fences. It was one of those towns that had two stoplights, a diner, and a general store run by a man named Dwight who still remembered the Dust Bowl.
When Jayson stepped into the store, folks nodded his way.
"Evenin', Jayson."
"Hey there, boy. Your mama bakin' them biscuits again?"
He smiled, polite and warm. He loaded up the butter, coffee, a sack of sugar, and a few extras. Chatted with Dwight about the storm rolling in from the west. Paid cash. Drove home with the windows down.
But as he pulled up the drive, his stomach knotted.
There was a car parked in front of the house. Newer model. Dusty from travel. He hadn't heard it come in.
He stepped onto the porch, a strange hush hanging over the yard like the air before a twister. The screen door creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside, the lights were dim. Mary Beth was on the couch, her hands in someone's grasp. A man knelt in front of her.
Jayson froze.
The man turned his head slowly. Sharp jaw, eyes like their father's. The resemblance struck like a bell. It had been almost a decade, but Jayson knew him.
"Eli?" he said, voice barely above a whisper.
His half-brother looked up. Older now, lean and travel-worn. There was blood on his shirt, not fresh but stained in old brown patches. His eyes were hollow.
"Hey, Jace," Eli said, forcing a thin smile. "Been a while."
Mary Beth looked up at Jayson, eyes rimmed red but shining. She was crying—but not from sorrow.
"You come on in, sweetheart," she said softly. "Your brother's come home."
Jayson stepped in, setting the bag of groceries down on the counter without looking away. The room felt like it was bending around him—his instincts, the part of him that could hear atoms vibrating, pulsing with warning.
Eli was here for more than just family.