I watch outside the Greyhound as the capitol falls behind. The cop was fair with me at least. He didn’t contact my parole officer. The Bus driver has specific instructions to not let me off until we get home. I have no desire to go back to jail, so I sit patiently as the miles pass by.
My bike is impounded in DC, so who knows when I’ll be able to get that back? I think of Sparrow on the trip.
Trying to add up the pieces, I know it all ties into the 7-11, but there’s got to be something else going on. Somewhere on the trip, I fall asleep. I’m woken by the sun, and the bus stopping. I’m home.
I walk the few blocks to my apartment through a light mist. When I arrive the thunderstorm is waiting for me.
“Hey Jackson,” Red says below that awful hat. “Rahkim wants a word.”

Shit. Blurry vision. Something blue is coming into focus. My left arm won’t move for some reason. People talking. I let out a small grunt, and the blue blur turns towards me. The talking stops.
Focus regains slowly. Shit. It’s a uniform.
“Jackson. Come on wake up”, the cops instructs me. “Hey get him some water.” A young girl brings me some. She was one of the bartenders. Her eyes show how rough the night has been for her already. I try to focus on those eyes as I sip the water. Try to reassure her even though I’m the one in serious trouble here.
“Jackson, what happened here?”
“ I don’t know.” I look to my unmoving arm and realized I’m handcuffed to the chair. “This necessary?”
“That’s up to you,” He kneels down to my leg, pulling up my jeans, revealing the small tracking radio on my leg. “Pretty impressive how you disabled this.”
Could this night get any better?
“Look Jackson, tell me what you know, either way you’ve broken parole and are heading back south, but you help me, I’ll talk to your Parole Officer for you.”
I stare at the floor. Watch an ant skitter across. I’m now a bug in this, whatever this is? Before we get started there is one thing I need to know.
“Sparrow?”
The faces in the room tell me all I need to know.

The band is finishing up the set. The air in the room is charged with youthful energy, sparking the lungs, and moving the adrenaline needle. It overtakes me, makes me feel young. I’m pretty sure I’m smiling. A big, goofy grin, I bet. My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I let it ring.
The set ends, the noise of the cheering crowd pounds my ear drums. Sparrow and crew take the final bow, and she turns to leave the stage.
I catch the light falling over her, and realize how beautiful she is on stage. She’s alive. Her eyes sparkle as she walks towards me, smiling my way. I wave out to her.
She’s half way to me, when her smile fades, and a look of utter fear crosses her face. She’s looking past me. I turn to see what could bring that gaze out of her.
My face meets the oncoming end of the shotgun and it’s a K.O.

“What is this Sparrow?”
She pulls back, like questions have never graced her ears.
“Just thanking you I guess.” Sparrow pulls a sleeve of her shirt back over a slender shoulder. “But its cool if your not into it.” Her eyes hit the floor. I take her hands in mine.
“No, I’m into it. Just, I don’t know…” I decide the best course is to just kiss her. I could ask more questions than I would ever want answers for right now. But for once in my life, I just act.
And then the minutes move fast, and before I’m ready, the knock comes from the door.
“Mrs. Sprite, your own in a few,” a voice from outside yells. I notice the sounds of the club again , the bass coming through the walls, the anthem of young adults blaring, and wonder again, how I ended up here?
Sparrow is putting on a ripped jean jacket, (great stage wear by the way), and lighting a cigarette.
“Want to watch from the side?” she asks, and I nod. A few minutes later I’m watching Sparrow Sprite control the crowd, envelope the room with her voice, and I think more than once, that she’s looking my way. To the guy who just happened to be outside the 7-11 a few nights earlier.
When shots rang out.
—–continued.

Outside the club, the snow falling over me in light flakes, I give the bouncer my name. He looks over a sheet quickly, makes a check and lets me enter. The club’s warmth fills me and the smell of smoke comes from the long hallway. I pass posters of past acts to grace the stage. It fills me with an ounce of nostalgia, and also the realization that I am not getting old. I am old.
I head to the back of the club to the ‘green room’, where another bouncer checks my name and lets me enter. Sparrow is relaxing on a couch, beer in hand. Two other members of the band, see me, grab their things and leave quickly as if they had previous marching orders.
“Hi Jackson. Glad you came,” Sparrow says as she stands, putting her arms around my neck.
The next thing I know her lips are on mine, warm and sweet. My arms pull her close. I hear the opening band doing their sound check.
1…..2…..3… Microphone check…………..

Back in my apartment, the television blurring me into unconsciousness, I feel the weight of the past couple of days. Somewhere between an old A-team rerun, and the late shows, I doze off. When I wake I see the blinking light from my cell phone. Got a message. Must be from the boss.
I stretch out and slowly hit the buttons to receive my marching orders, but instead the calls from my new friend.
“Hi Jackson, its Sparrow. We are playing tonight in D.C. If you can make it, you’re on the guest list.”
End of message. D.C. is a six hour ride. I look at my watch. Its only 8am. I can make it easily. Why not?
Shower, some grits and eggs, and I’m pulling the Honda out of the alley beside the house. It coughs a little protest before I peel out and head out to the highway. Sparrow Sprite and DC.
A newfound patriotism blooms up in me.

I’m standing outside Daisy’s house looking at the fading paint job. This was my house once. A house I bought for us. For a family that never was. I close my eyes for a second and see it again. The fence was a light blue, not the scattered shower of wood sticks it is now. The house a bright red wood on a street of brown brick dwellings. We were both younger then, and Daisy had bright blue eyes that made it easy to get up every morning. I smell the kitchen, feel the warm water from the shower inside, and taste the air of a happy home.
But it’s all nostalgia.
“Jackson. What the hell are you doing just standing there?”
Daisy is wearing a tanktop, her hair pulled back. Her eyes dull, tired.
“Hi Daisy, Henry home?”
She chews on this a bit, looks away.
“Nah, he’s gone, come on in.”
Inside it looks strangely the same as it did some four years prior. The odd picture is missing and I notice the television is gone. Probably sold for a hit.
“You want a beer, Jackson?”
I accept and we sit at the kitchen table. I used to play poker on it. Daisy is running her fingers over the red vinyl top nervously. It smells strange in here.
“Henry left.”
The news does not surprise me. She doesn’t hesitate,
“Jackson. God. I’m sorry. But I need some cash.”
Of course. It’s not like I didn’t expect this when she called. If you ever wonder how long people can use your good will, Daisy is the perfect example. But she knows I’ll give her some, because she understands that even with all the shit, there is a small part of me that still loves her. Not a lot, but just enough to not see her suffer. I give her money for groceries, even though it will not be spent on them.
As I get up to leave she gives me this strange awkward hug. Her shoulders feel frail, as if they are about to give up, to break into dust. My hand comes close to caressing her hair, but stops short.
I pull away, grabbing the beer as I go.
“Goodnight Daisy.”
I think I hear her whisper back, as I exit the house where I my youthful dreams died.

The morning is a blur. Coffee and pancakes for me. Sprite has a cigarette. At the end of the meal, she asks for my phone number. I give it on a menu. She stares at it for a while.
“Look Jackson, thanks. I mean really.”
I want to ask her a bunch of questions, but I just nod. Sparrow Sprite gets up, leaves a few bills on the table and waves goodbye. I’m frozen and just sit there watching her go. An idiot in a trance. My phone rings sometime later, breaking my stare.
“Hi Daisy.”
Daisy is my ex-wife. I would officially like to introduce her to you as the reason I’m so fucked up.
But instead I’ll tell you she’s a sweet country girl who got mixed up in heroin and pixie sticks.
Both are mostly true.
—continued

We are in a motel room twelve miles outside the city limits. I’m staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the smell of the sheets below and the blood stains on the ceiling above. Sparrow is taking a shower.
She hasn’t said a word. But she didn’t object when I suggested we get this place.
I take out my phone. No messages.
Sitting up I grab the remote to the old square TV. The news should be on.
I watch a story about pet adoption, before the real news hits. A female reporter, with bright red hair stands outside the 7-11. They have no current leads.
I flick the TV off, toss the remote aside. Look towards the bathroom, noticing the shower has stopped. I get up, knock on the door.
“Sparrow? You alright?”
I hear a whimper. I push the door open slightly and see Sparrow Sprite, naked, curled in a ball inside the off white tub. Her eyes meet mine.
Ghosts in her eyes.
——Continued

I should run. Flee the scene, but something tugs at me and takes me back into the store.
Blood. A spilt slurpee. The clerk is dead, laying over the counter, his blood sliding forward diving onto the floor below. Sparrow is sobbing behind me, near the drink cooler. Her left hand clenching a smashed beer bottle. There is blood on her jeans. She’s looking right through me towards the clerk. Sirens.
I should stay. Explain to the cops what I heard. Be home by midnight. I should.
Instead I move to Sparrow, kneel down to her position.
“Sparrow”.
Her eyes flicker, catching my voice, breaking her trance.
“Sparrow. Come on, we need to get out of here.”
She relaxes her grip on the smashed bottle, and it falls the few inches to the floor with a clink.
I take Sparrow Sprites’ hand, and before I think about anything else, we are driving in her blue Corvette, past oncoming cop cars and a wobbly ambulance.
We leave the flashing lights behind heading out into the dark.
—-continued