Carolina Moon

Chapter 7

Cam

---

"Hold on tight, Cam. None of that pussycat shit."

Cam had steadied his grip on the shotgun, his fingers curling tight around the butt. He shook, though he tried hard to hide it from his father, who had taken position behind him with a watchful eye.

Cam could smell the beer on his breath. Feel the harsh scratch of secondhand cigarette smoke in his throat.

The calf in front of him wasn't moving, but he watched its ribs expand with breath again and again. He felt his own heartbeat in his ears and imagined it would stop too, the moment he pulled the trigger.

He didn't blink. His eyes had grown wet with tears and if his father were to see, it would warrant a slap on the back of the head—or worse. It wasn't the slap Cam was scared of, but the worse part.

Less than twenty-four-hours ago, he'd been a deliriously happy boy. He'd just celebrated his twelfth birthday with cupcakes and a single baseball cap Lucy had purchased for him with the money she'd saved from selling lemonade down at the church. He had stolen her a drugstore lipstick while his mom was picking up medication at the pharmacy. Best thing he'd ever stolen, second to the hair ties he'd snagged for her last birthday.

Presents didn't come from parents. They came from twins who knew if they didn't do what they had to for each other, no one would.

But, to his surprise, his Mom had been smart enough to hide a ten dollar bill in a can of old peanuts at the back of the cupboard, and not in her purse where his pop could find it. So she'd bought frozen pizza and cherry soda, which was enough for Cam.

The best birthday on record, as far as he could recall. Mostly because his pop wasn't around to set his world on fire.

If he'd known that the next day he would be tasked with the job of killing his favorite baby cow, he wouldn't have enjoyed it so much. Wasn't a cruel situation, really. She'd developed a neurological disease, and the only cure was a bullet to the brain. But Cam had never shot a thing besides empty soda cans. And he was taking much too long.

"Just shoot the damn thing," his father grumbled.

Cam hesitated. He couldn't get himself to do it—couldn't pull the trigger.

His father let out an animal sound, dragging Cam back by his hair. "Give me the damn gun," he said. He snatched the shotgun from Cam's hands, aimed at the calf and POP.

Cam shot up from dead sleep to the buzz of his phone on his nightstand table. The pop of the gun from his dreams still rang like echoes in his head. He groaned and reached over, shoving aside empty beer cans to snatch the device from its charger. A message appeared as he unlocked the screen.

Lucy: Crashed my car down by the farm. Call you after work.

Cam sat up, delirious from the sleeping pills he'd taken before bed. Nothing seemed to work anymore. Insomnia snapped him out of sleep every few hours like an alarm was going off deep inside his bones.

You have two braincells, Lucy, he typed back, and they're both fighting for third place.

No response. Cam sighed and sat up, running his fingers through his curly brown hair.

He would have been more worried about Lucy if it weren't for the fact that they were tied together at the brain. When things were wrong—really wrong—Cam felt it. Back in high school when Lucy broke her leg, he swore he lost all feeling in his for an entire evening. When she burned herself on the grill, he developed a rash in the same spot, next day.