Ezra Knox's Arc

Chapter 2 of 11

By mid-morning, Ezra was back at the wall with a bucket and a stiff brush. The paint had dried tacky in the sun. They scrubbed at a corner where the boy's painted shoulder had been, and the color smeared but did not lift. Footsteps came up behind them, more than one set, slow and uneven. Ezra set the brush down and turned. A man and a woman stood holding a wooden cross wrapped in bright cloth, notes pinned to its base. The boy's parents. They had set it where his face used to be. The mother's voice shook. "Who did this? You watch this wall. You must know." Ezra opened their mouth and closed it. The empty list sat in their pocket like a stone. "I don't know yet," Ezra said. "But I will find them." The father nodded once, slow, and pressed the cross into the dirt at Ezra's feet. "Then this stays," he said, "until you do." They walked away. Ezra knelt and steadied the cross upright. The promise was made aloud now. There was no taking it back. The mother turned back once. She walked to Ezra and held out a small brass lamp, its bowl scorched, a stub of wick still inside. "He carried this everywhere," she said. "He called it his stolen fire." She set it at the foot of the cross. "Light it when you know the name." Ezra nodded. They could not speak. The parents left. Ezra stayed kneeling between the cross and the cold lamp, the brush forgotten, the wall still ruined behind them. The work had changed shape. It was not a search anymore. It was a debt. The father came back alone a minute later. He was carrying a hot pink bass guitar by the neck, the black pickguard scratched and dull. He laid it across the bricks beneath the cross. "This was his," he said. "So you know the face you're painting back." He pointed at a sticker near the bridge — a band name, a tour date, a boy's handwriting in marker. "He played at the tavern Fridays. Ask there. Someone saw something." Ezra ran a thumb along the strings. They hummed faint and out of tune. The father walked off without looking back. Ezra stood up. The list in their pocket was no longer empty. It had one place on it now: the tavern, Friday. They picked up the brush and went back to the wall. The scrubbing could wait. The asking could not.