Daddy Parker's Arc

Chapter 6 of 10

Daddy Parker left Papa Acorn's cottage and drove until the road thinned to gravel. He parked near an old stone footbridge and walked out onto its worn arch. From there he could see the river below, fast and white at the edges. He kept his hands on the rail and watched. A man with bright blue hair stood on the bank with three small children. Troll Daddy. He held a fishing rod cut from a twisted reed, line tied at the tip. He showed the kids how to grip it. He pointed to a stick jammed in the mud as a marker. "See this stick? That's home," Troll Daddy said. "You walk past it, you turn back. River moves faster than you. Faster than me." He tapped the stick twice. "Faster than me." Daddy Parker watched him kneel and show the youngest how to step back from the wet rocks. No flourish. Just hands and words. Daddy Parker thought of his own youngest at home, the speech bill folded in a drawer, the call he kept not making. He pulled out his list anyway. He uncapped the pen. He walked down the slope. Troll Daddy looked up, surprised. Daddy Parker held out a small pocket compass, polished brass, the needle steady. "For the kids," he said. "So they always find the marker." He paused. "Father Number Four." Troll Daddy took the compass in his rough hand. He turned it once. "I'm out here every weekend," he said quietly. "Every weekend. Because if I stop, I have to look at what I'm not doing." Daddy Parker nodded. He didn't trust his voice. He climbed back to the bridge with two slots left, and a weight in his chest that finally had a name.