Compound Fracture: Chapters 1-7

When the sheriff of Twist Creek County — and all those other sons of bitches, the Baldwin-Felts agents and bloodthirsty strikebreakers — finally caught my great-great-grandfather and dragged his ass up from the mine to make a spectacle of his execution, they killed him by hammering a railroad spike through his mouth.

She has the fan going too, full blast even though summer rarely gets warm enough to justify it, with the corner of grandma’s quilt clutched tight in her hands.

I step carefully, avoiding the spots of the old floor that creak, and lean over my father to inspect the tangle of emails and printouts.

Election results map. West Virginia municipal guide, the running for office version.

A bunch of email drafts, all unfinished, most to recipients I recognize but some I don’t.

If I forgot to hide something, this should cause enough of a ruckus that Mom won’t notice.

So I’m huddled behind the snack table, chewing on the shoelace I bought specifically for chewing on, scanning the party for trouble.

A gaggle of sophomore girls wade into the shallow water, and Skeeter’s by the fire selling oxy at a markup only freshman are dumb enough to fall for.

Doctor must be getting a nice kickback for all the scripts he shits out.

Guess being the smart kid overrides both my family reputation and the fact that I growled at people in elementary school.

“Breanna’s over there,” Kara says to me, crouching to inspect the dwindling selection of stolen drinks sweating in the cooler.

I recoil. Half the party turns to face us and I’m gonna break out into hives.

There’s a small crackle of laughter, and then attention on us dissipates — a joke at the Abernathys’ expense, fine, there’s better things to do — but Cooper cuts through the crowd, nursing a Bud Light and wearing his John Deere hat backwards.

She shoots me a look I think is supposed to be conspiratorial, like she’s done me some grand favor.

If it means I’m an antisocial asshole to everyone else, I’ll take it.

I keep my eyes down until we’re at the riverbank, outside the jurisdiction of the bonfire, until it’s just the rumble of the river and the distant mutter of the radio.

The video got posted wherever it’d do the most collateral damage.

Rumor says Noah cornered her in a bathroom, said he’d do the same to her if she didn’t shape up, and she decided running was a better option.

I do that when I’m stressed. Chew on stuff or tear up my skin until it bleeds. It’s a compulsion. It calms me down, I think.

My parents tried to keep the feud from me because they’re good parents — like they tried to hide the money troubles, and the year Dad couldn’t get off OxyContin, and the gun hidden in the safe under the nightstand.

I devoured Kropotkin and Engels, every preserved piece of John Brown’s work.

Did you know socialists armed the miners of Twist Creek County?

A deer can’t negotiate with a bullet once it’s been fired.

I push back but they shove desperately, pleading. Please.

I’m suddenly woozy.