Hank's Arc

Chapter 8 of 14

Henry's eyes drifted past Hank to the wooden platform near the shed. He squinted at it, then at the empty bottles stacked beside it. "What's that thing for?" he asked. Hank felt his face go hot. He could lie. He could say it was for drying tomatoes, for sorting seedlings, for anything. Instead he kept his eyes on his boots and told the truth. "It's for the beer creatures," he said. "Gold ones. They dance on it." The words hung there, stupid and small. Henry didn't laugh. He just nodded once, slow, and put a hand on Hank's shoulder. "Okay," Henry said. "Okay. We're getting you some help." Henry walked back toward the cruiser and stopped beside the old red mailbox at the edge of the drive. He leaned against the dented metal and pulled out his phone. Hank watched him scroll, then dial. The sun cut hard across the faded paint. Hank felt smaller than he had in years. His eyes drifted past Henry to the little thatched-roof building he'd been fixing up by the fence. The sign above the door still read Country Pub in fresh paint. Flower boxes he'd hung last week. A bench he'd dragged out for evenings that hadn't come yet. All of it waiting for a permit, for people, for something that wasn't this. Henry hung up and walked back. "Bed open at a place in town," he said. "Thirty days. We go now." Hank looked at the platform, at the pub, at the brother who hadn't flinched. He nodded. He climbed into the cruiser without packing a bag. The beer garden would have to wait.