Read Online Embers & Ash by T.M. Goeglein - Free Book Online Page A

were quiet again, steam pipes hissing around us. “One other thing. It’s so effed up,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHer method of parenting was out of sight, out of mind, right? But like every kid, I’d get into trouble now and then . . . busted for shoplifting a candy bar or something.”
    â€œShame on you.”
    â€œI know, surprise, I’m human,” he said. “And then you should’ve seen her. She became super-disciplinarian, raising holy hell, watching my every move. It was sick, like . . . she did so little, it made her feel like a mom. But then after a day or so, she’d get distracted by a martini or three and I’d become invisible again.”
    â€œMother of the year,” I said.
    â€œMother-something,” he said. “Can I ask you a question?”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œHow could you let Max go?”
    It caught me off guard, slowing my step. “Being around me was too dangerous for him. I had no choice. You know that.”
    â€œWhat I meant was, how were you strong enough to let go of someone who loves you?” he said. “I can’t imagine having the courage to give that up.”
    â€œThere was cowardice in it, too. I was scared what he’d think about me, the things I’d done. I hated letting him go.” I sighed. “But then, I hate a lot about myself.”
    â€œYou do what you have to do,” he said quietly.
    â€œDoesn’t make it right.” We fell silent, trudging ahead, until I said, “What about your hockey player?”
    â€œThe lunkhead hadn’t even seen
Citizen Kane.
We were doomed from date one,” he said. “Your turn again. Spill it. What kind of friend is Tyler?”
    â€œI’m not sure. I know he likes me . . . and it feels good. I trust him, at least a little.”
    â€œRemember
The Godfather.
Trust only your
consigliere,
” Doug said. “For the record, that’s me.”
    â€œWhat I meant was, Tyler and I operate in the same world. We understand it,” I said. “But it doesn’t mean we like it.”
    â€œHow do you know he doesn’t like it?”
    â€œI just know.”
    â€œGut feeling?”
    â€œWe talk. We text. Okay?”
    â€œOkeydokey,” he said. “Just watch your step.”
    â€œSpeaking of—is the ground getting muddy?”
    â€œDefinitely sticky . . . goopy,” he said.
    I felt bricks scrape my helmet, the walls press against my shoulders. “Either I’m growing,” I said, “or it’s getting smaller in here.”
    â€œI was worried about this,” Doug said. “Settling.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAll those books on the control center you never read? They explain how Chicago is built on mud and clay,” he said, touching the wall. “Bricks are missing. The earth is seeping in. This tunnel’s probably settling, sinking.”
    â€œWhat if it
settles
on top of us?”
    Doug was quiet a moment. “Just keep moving.”
    The space narrowed more with each step, pushing down from the top, rising up from below. Doug was correct—the ceiling was sinking while wet dirt crumbled in from the sides, filling the floor. I stumbled, reached out to steady myself, and started a small avalanche of bricks and mortar. Overhead, a groaning noise sounded as a shower of grit rained down on our helmets. We froze, waiting for the whole thing to collapse on top of us. When it didn’t, I said, “My bad.”
    â€œDo
not
do that again,” Doug said.
    â€œGuaranteed,” I said, pushing on.
    Soon it was difficult to walk upright—we were bent over like two question marks in the dark—and it was all I could do not to scream at the sense of being buried alive. The cold, wormy smell of soil enveloped us as the ceiling pressed down and the path beneath us pushed upward, and then it was so tight the