The Summer That Melted Everything by Tiffany McDaniel

but that didn’t stop the sore throat or the coughin’. I had a forehead of lava. I had to stay in bed. Suck back that horrible cough syrup.”
    I did my best hacking cough, feigning to fall out of bed until he laughed.
    I stayed sitting on the floor, up against the bed, as I told him how Mom came in with a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
    â€œShe didn’t give it to me. She sat it right here on the floor. Then she went out and Dad came in with a bowl. He did the same damn thing she did and left without a word. When Grand come in, I asked what the hell was goin’ on but he didn’t say a thing, just sat his bowl down beside Mom’s and Dad’s.
    â€œThis was how it went, them bringin’ in bowl after bowl of chicken noodle until there were thirteen. Dad laid saltines so they floated on top of the soup and so Mom could stand a birthday candle up on each cracker. It was Grand who lit the wicks.
    â€œMom said it was the birthday cake for boys who are sick. ‘So get out of bed and get down here with us to make a wish quick,’ Dad said, ‘before the candles sink.’
    â€œYou know what I wished for, Sal?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTo be sick for every birthday. That day, I felt loved.”
    He looked down at his chest as he said, “Then you already know.”
    â€œAlready know what?”
    â€œWhat God looks like.”
    He pushed his blanket off to the side and stood to kneel by the window bed, his elbows up on the cushions, his palms together. I climbed back up into bed and switched the fan to low so I could hear him. I laid back and closed my eyes.
    In his earthy voice, his prayers sounded like the haymaking I heard one time when passing a field in harvest. The cling clang of sharpening the scythe’s blade. The sharp scythe swiping and cutting the grass in crunching whooshes. The rake coming softly but scratchy as the cut grass is gathered and rolled into bales. Bales to be kept back and saved in the very seconds that had made them.

 
    7
    Â â€¦ true in our fall,
    False in our promised rising
    â€” MILTON, PARADISE LOST 9:1069–1070
    M Y DREAMS THAT first night were of long hallways and burning doors. By the time morning came, I felt burned myself. I lay there in bed. My eyes closed and the fan, a poor help on my face.
    â€œThose people are here.”
    I looked up at Sal. The window behind him putting his edges in light.
    â€œWhat people?” I yawned.
    â€œAmos’ people.” He tugged at his shirt. It would be a while before my bright, clean clothes looked natural on him. He was more field than town. More old soul pasture than adolescent attitude.
    He left as I threw on a tank and cut-offs. When I got downstairs, I found him in the kitchen with Mom, Dad, the sheriff, and a man with mechanic hands holding a woman who was still wearing her maid’s uniform from last night’s shift. She kept shaking her head at Sal, crying that he was not her Amos.
    â€œYours.” Sal was offering the bowl and spoon to the woman.
    â€œThey ain’t mine, honey.” She blew her nose, the gold crosses shaking at her ears.
    As Sal set the things back on top of the counter, Dad whispered to Mom, after which she took me and Sal into the living room, where she turned up the television. We sat on the sofa, listening to the San Francisco lovers on Phil Donahue talk about the shock of testing positive.
    A few minutes later, Amos’ parents were driving away in their rusted Chevette while Dad and the sheriff returned to us in the living room.
    â€œI was certain he was gonna be theirs.” The sheriff tucked his thumbs into his belt loops. “Well, hell, I’ll continue the investigation. Let ya know what I come up with.”
    Dad brushed the sweaty strands of his hair back. “He can stay with us in the meantime.”
    â€œI won’t put you good folks out like that.” The sheriff looked about to spit. Only the rug