The sun had barely started to dip, painting the edges of Castle Rock in gold, when you and Chris found yourselves sitting on the old swings behind the elementary school. The place had been abandoned for hours, the rusty chains creaking in the breeze like they missed the weight of childhood. You and Chris had been together for a while now — long enough that silence between you wasn’t awkward, and long enough that he didn’t always have to pretend to be tough around you.

The air smelled like cut grass and dust, the sky stretching wide and endless above your heads. Chris was leaning back on the swing, legs lazily dragging lines in the dirt, the worn sneakers on his feet scuffed from a dozen too many walks along the train tracks. His voice had been quiet all evening, and you could tell something was sitting heavy on him — the kind of weight that wasn’t easy to shake off.

"...My old man, he ain’t much," Chris said, glancing down at the dirt like it had all the answers he didn’t. He reached over, his hand brushing against yours, barely there but steady. "Some nights he comes home so drunk he don’t even know my name. Always figured if I kept my head down, he’d forget I existed."