PART 1
There is a particular kind of heat that settles over our town in July, the kind that makes the sidewalk shimmer and turns a short walk to the mailbox into an ordeal. On days like that, most people peel off every extra layer they own. My husband put more on.
Brad wore thin cotton gloves in that heat. Long sleeves buttoned to the wrist. A collar he tugged just a little higher than it needed to be. At home, our three children knew every mark on his skin — they had traced the crooked lines and strange little shapes on his arms and hands so many times that Molly, our youngest, could probably draw the sunflower on his forearm from memory. But the moment he stepped outside our front door, all of it disappeared under fabric, no matter the season.
“Why is this petal so fat?” Molly asked him one morning, her small finger tracing the lopsided flower on his forearm while he tied his shoes.
Brad glanced down, unbothered, like this was a question he’d answered a hundred times before. “Artistic decision, sweetheart.”
“Whose?”
Something flickered behind his eyes. He pulled his sleeve down over it before I could name what it was.
“Ancient history,” he said.
His voice was light. Playful, even. But the way his hand moved to cover that tattoo — quick, practiced, almost defensive — told a different story than his tone did. I’d watched him do it a thousand times over the years and I still couldn’t tell you exactly what it was protecting.
