Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (easy readers .TXT) 📕

taken place inside the Last Resort and inside his ringing skull. He might have deemed the whole thing a good time, nothing more.

But he did not go straight to his bed. He went with Rachel, and Angela, and Ian—singing still—down the street to rouse his patient Schooner, make for them a plate of sandwiches and a jug of sobering lemonade, explain to them the cryptic note taped to his kitchen cupboard, reveal with confused misgivings and uncomplicated trust the reasons for his arrival in their midst.

“I don’t regret what I did,” he said haltingly. “Just how I did it. I didn’t think things through. I was too impulsive. And now … I feel like I’m at my father’s mercy. I haven’t got enough money to last me for very long. And I’m not sure what’s going to happen next.”

For a minute or two no one said a word. Joe guessed, quite accurately, that they felt for him a hybrid sort of pity. Their sympathy was tempered with scorn, as if Joe were an adolescent brother: arrogant, selfish, charming, much loved. He had been thoughtless to them in small ways, but for his sister’s sake he had been brave, choosing her comfort over his own. When they pictured his merciless father, they planted their elbows on the Schooner’s Formica tabletop and felt their hackles rise. And when he finally lifted his eyes to theirs, they closed ranks, he among them.

“If I were you,” Ian said, “I’d go over to the Gas ’n’ Go right now and call the man. Get it over with.”

“I was planning to give him a few more days to cool off.”

“Uh-uh. He’s likely to be worrying his head off by now. And the more worried he gets, the angrier he’ll be when he finds out you were sitting here the whole time, safe and sound.”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “I’m not sure he’d worry. He might, I suppose. I’m not sure I can rely on anything I thought I knew about the man.”

“I don’t envy you, Joe.” Angela sighed. She’d been thinking about her long-gone husband and her son. “What a time you’ve had the last few days. It’s hard to have so many things thrown at you at once.” She slid out of the booth and looked at her reflection in the dark window. It made a kind mirror. She looked less tired, much younger than she felt. “I can understand you wanting to lie low for a while and let the dust settle. But I also think Ian’s right. It might be better to go at this whole thing straight on, get it over with, thrash it out with him before things get worse.”

After a moment, Joe turned to Rachel, who was sitting alongside him in the little booth. “Well?”

“Well what?” she said, startled. “What do I think? I don’t know. I’ve just been trying to put myself in your shoes, but I can’t quite manage it. You really did all these things without a second thought?”

“Afraid so.” Joe leaned his head against the back of the booth and closed his eyes. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“And it’s turned out all right so far, hasn’t it?” she asked. “I mean, you’re alive and well and in good company. Nothing wrong with that. If you’d done nothing, stayed where you were, Holly would still be counting down the days, you’d be as good as dead, and your father …” Rachel shook her head. “I know he’s your flesh and blood, Joe, but he got what he deserved. And if there’s any decency in him, he’ll take it from here, get himself some help, and thank you in the end. If not, then it’s good you left.”

“Saved your life,” Ian said, nodding.

Joe rubbed his eyes. It was three o’clock in the morning. His father would be sleeping. Dreaming, perhaps, of an absent son. Unaware of the rioting stars—distant, hot, noisy suns that from earth looked like chips of ice and diamond. Unaware of the treasure his son had somehow struck, on this journey, in his own neglected bones. Unaware of the choices his son was contemplating, like a farmer whose crop is nearly ripe.

“Who’s got a dime?” Joe asked, and went out into the night while his friends sat and waited.

They waited for a long time.

“Think he got lost?” Ian finally yawned.

“Maybe he just chickened out.” Rachel sighed. “He’s probably wandering around like a goat, trying to figure out what to do next.”

“Nice.”

“Well, shoot me, Angela. I like the guy well enough—don’t ask me why—but we’ve known him all of a day. He’s already rubbed me the wrong way more than once.”

“He’s a stranger,” Ian said. “There’s no reason in the world we should be here waiting for him in the middle of the night, worried about him, looking for ways to help him. But I don’t need a reason to like the boy or give him a hand if he asks for it.” He paused and ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass. “Do you?”

“Well, no,” Rachel said, somewhat petulantly. “I already said I like him, didn’t I? I’m just a bit more skeptical than you, Ian.”

“Maybe we should go look for him,” Angela suggested.

At the sound of the doorknob turning, Rachel looked up, frowning. She was annoyed at herself for the softness of her heart. Her pleasure was scarred by indecision. Her instincts collided like the wakes of boats on separate courses, all foam and disturbance. She was prepared to meet his return with nonchalance, even disinterest. But she was not prepared for his sorrow.

He was weeping as he walked in the door. Rachel reached him first and did not think as she opened her arms and took him in. He was heavy and cold. His cheek against her neck was wet.

He was talking to himself, his voice so hoarse and exhausted, so clotted with tears that she could not understand what he was saying.

“It’s all right now,” Rachel