Mitchell leaned against the hood of his ’84 Lincoln, one boot kicked over the other. He had just popped a cigarette into his mouth and was reaching into his pocket for his Zippo. Looking out into the crowd he saw people from around the whole city, those from his neighborhood, and those not. There were guys with their arms around their girls, people mingling in groups, and those gathered around one car to listen to the driver brag about how awesome it is and perhaps rev the engine for them. Mitchell avoided such theatrics. Having the nicest, fastest hot rod on the street didn’t mean shit if you didn’t know how to drive it.

Mitchell’s ride might not have looked the most impressive, but he knew how to fucking drive it. A dark red 1984 Lincoln Mark VII, it bore the mark of his mechanical expertise with a souped-up engine that jutted from the hood like the dorsal fin of a chrome great white. The paint was applied in a shiny gloss, one that shimmered even in the fetid streetlights. Spindled hubcaps matched the shine his engine sported. Those few customizations made it unique enough to be his own. No matter how it looked, it was fast, and that’s all he needed to be.

Whether it was a slow piece of shit, he could still drive the hell out of it. That much could be seen by the lack of drivers willing to race him. Granted, tonight was more of a show-offy night. Drivers were out burning donuts and roaring their engines. There wasn’t really a venue cut out for a race, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have one. Mitchell was there to test the waters, maybe spin the block against a few newbies who didn’t recognize him. He’d make them regret it.

Just a few years on the street racing scene had cemented him as one of the city’s best drivers. He’d squashed some of the elite players in spectacular fashion, ending careers before they had even started. The road was his playground, and his opponents were his playthings. They would’ve known better than to challenge the likes of him. A Doberman Pinscher, he fit the archetype of your average street goer. Hanging out the straps of his skintight wife beater were muscle-swollen arms bathed in tattoos. Sharply cropped ears stood at attention atop his head, listening to the idle chatter and purring engines around him. At the root of a long, slender snout was a stern and intimidating mien like a bodyguard’s. Never let them see you sweat, was one of his mottos, among others. That one, alongside his tougher ones (No Pain, No Gain) were emblazoned across his body in the form of tattoos, usually in a bold, gothic font.

Such hypermasculine posturing was wholly performative, and Mitchell knew that. Mingling with the types who staked their reputation on their racing skills required a hardened façade, undeterred by the boasts and accomplishments of others. You win some, you lose some. No matter which way things went for him, Mitchell ensured a status of unflinching stoicism. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to race. He was here to win.

His chance for the night rumbled up the street towards him, parting the see of onlookers like a school of fish darting from a shark. Mitchell had just flicked the lid on his Zippo when he turned his head to see two ghastly lights beaming through the legs of those still in front of it. They hurried out of the way, and forward came that rumbling behemoth of a vehicle. Mitchell recognized the chassis of a Cadillac 75 series. He pinned it to the forties, late war most likely. The hood had been discarded to leave bare a monstrous V8, its exhaust pipes swept down and out, the belt ripping around in a blur, the intake flashing open with every rev of the engine. Behind that array of flashy and barbaric chrome was a cabin painted in a black so deep that Mitchell felt he was looking more into the car than at it. He thought he saw clouds of exhaust passing over, but nothing visible was coming out of the pipes. Something translucent and nebulous seemed to float to the surface of the paint job, but by the time the Cadillac drew close enough for Mitchell to tell what it was it had disappeared.

The beast slowed to a stop in front of Mitchell. He saw nothing but his own reflection in the passenger window before it peeled down to reveal the driver. Inside was a portly goat fellow wearing a pair of black shades in the middle of the night. A long biker goatee fell from his chin in a frizzled curtain of grizzled gray that was yellowed at the tips by nicotine. The cabin was draped in the smoke that emanated from the cigar he kept clamped between his teeth. A portly belly covered most of his lap and the space between him and the steering column. Horns thicker than his forearms at the base swooped up from his crown to form a beefy half-curl. He regarded Mitchell with a sleazy, crooked grin.

“Hey there, partner,” he said through snaggled, yellow teeth. His timbre was familiar somehow, like Mitchell had heard it on TV or a radio once. “You up for a race?” People were gathering around them. Things had grown quiet.

Mitchell ignored him at first. He flicked his lighter on and ignited his cigarette. A long drag made the ember grow bright before he pulled it from his lips between two fingers then inhaled. He let the cloudy nicotine simmer in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling through his nose. Finally, he stepped forward from his car and leaned forward to peer into the goat’s cabin. “I might be. Who’s asking?” said Mitchell before taking another drag on his cigarette.

“Just a guy looking for an excuse to burn some rubber. Thinking of earning something else while I’m at it.”

That raised Mitchell’s eyebrows. “Oh yeah? What you looking to put down?”

The goat’s grin widened. “So glad you asked.” He plucked the cigar from his mouth with one hand and let the smoke billow from his mouth while the other reached into his pocket and drew a folded piece of paper. Mitchell didn’t see any writing, but he knew what it was just from the color. “I’m looking to put down this car of mine, if you’re willing to do the same.”

Those who were close enough to hear gasped. There had been exorbitant sums of money people had bet. Some guys put up prized possessions. A few had even bet their girlfriends. Extremely rarely did anyone bet their car. In the world of street racing, a driver’s car was his bread and butter, his manhood, his very flesh and blood. Even the most diehard didn’t put that at risk. Betting your car was like betting your very soul.

Naturally, Mitchell was hesitant, but he wasn’t going to show that. “I don’t know, man. This is a nice car you got here.” He gave the roof an affectionate pat. It was deathly cold to the touch, sending a jolt through his arm like something had grabbed him. “I’d hate to take it off your hands. I don’t know what I’d do with it.” That was a lie. He’d probably turn it into his flagship if it raced half as good as it looked. If not, he’d sell it for a pretty penny and upgrade what he already had.

The goat seemed flattered. “Hey, I appreciate it, but this puppy ain’t nothin’ special. It’s what you’ve got there I’m after.” He nodded towards Mitchell’s Lincoln. “I hear you know how to race better than anyone else. Care to prove that to me?”

He’s goading me on. I’ll be damned if it isn’t working. The goat’s praise of Mitchell’s Lincoln was odd, however. If anything, the goat wanted it just to prove he could beat the best driver in town. Mitchell had never met this guy or seen his car before. Probably some drifter trying to put some amateurs in their place. I’ll show him. “Maybe I ought to.”

The goat cackled. “Heh. That’s what I like to hear. You got your pink slip?”

“In the glove compartment, yeah.”

“Rock on. So, you ready to put that puppy on the line?”

“That depends. What line we runnin’?”

The goat’s smile, already twisted, spread into something downright maniacal. “Grapevine Hill.”

It was Mitchell’s turn to gasp. He was able to constrain it through the nose, but it happened to him all the same. That name elicited a visceral reaction, a row of razors up the spine that straightened it and made his lungs swell. He hoped the goat didn’t notice, but the heat on his cheeks and the wave of chills that fell upon his feet no doubt betrayed him. Grapevine Hill. Of all fucking places. He was more familiar with that name than any other racer or attendee. Not because he’d raced it or even driven its road; it was off the beaten path by a few good miles, featuring roads not great for racing thanks to the surrounding forest, winding bends, and steep declines.

He was familiar with that name because he’d been warned never to race it by his father. Mitchell’s dad had been openly against his street racing, citing how dangerous it all was. “Even if it was safe, you’re gonna wind up in jail. Johnny Law’ll catch up with you eventually, no matter how fast you drive. That if it don’t kill you first.” His objections were clear, but as soon as Mitchell had turned 18 and moved out there was nothing he could do to stop him. “Do whatever,” he said in one final word of advice. “Just don’t go racin’ on Grapevine Hill. Never. No matter what. Anywhere in the world but there.”

He’d beaten that message to death, ensuring Mitchell would never forget. He hadn’t, though the chance of ever racing such a poorly lined track seemed nil up until now. In his years of racing, nobody had ever mentioned the place. Now here was some mysterious curmudgeon betting his car on a race down there, a queer proposition if there ever was one. After calming down, he asked the goat. “Why there?”

The goat just shrugged. “It’d be a change of pace, for sure. Been around the block in this town more times than I can count. I bet you have too.”

“I ain’t never seen you around here before.”

“I came back,” said the goat. “Been itchin’ to race the Vine since I first raced here. Never did. Figured a veteran like you would be up for it, considering what’s on the line.” He gave his pink slip a wag.

The voice of Mitchell’s dad echoed. Anywhere in the world but there. Mitchell couldn’t ignore such a sincere warning, nor the sizeable crowd of folks waiting for his answer. Their many gazes fell on him like a lead blanket. Absent was his father’s. He gave the Cadillac another once over. It was a damn nice car. No matter what he did with it, it would’ve made a hell of a prize. There was the risk of losing his ride, but a worse humiliation lay in turning the challenge down and thus forfeiting his manhood. Whatever his decision, it had to come fast. The people were waiting, so was his tempter.

Mitchell patted the roof of the car. “Alright. You got yourself a race.”

Smiles and cheers from the crowd around him. The goat’s grin widened. “Hell yeah, partner. You got your slip with you?”

“I already said I did.”

“Right, right. Meet me at Robious and Grapevine. Take your time.”

Mitchell stood back from the Cadillac. “You do the same.” 

Mitchell got in his car and ignited the engine with a mighty roar, signaling the impending race. A cheer went up from the crowd, and they all migrated towards their own cars for Grapevine Hill. Mitchell floated through them slowly, his Lincoln rumbling beneath him like a prowling beast. Ahead was the goat and his Cadillac, its onyx color barely illuminated even within the twin beams of Mitchell’s headlights. There wafted another cloud Mitchell had seen earlier, this time across the Cadillac’s rearend. This was no exhaust. It did not float in mid-air like some billowing cloud but swept over the car’s paintjob like vapor under glass. As soon as one strip of it faded away, another would materialize behind it and drift along just as lazily. This continued as Mitchell followed, stopping only when the Cadillac did and when Mitchell got close. He leaned forward in the driver’s seat and narrowed his eyes. What the hell is it?

He didn’t have time to figure it out before the two made it to the intersection where Grapevine Hill started. That long, lonesome road peeled into the grainy forest ahead, being quickly swallowed by the dense woods upon the first turn. Mitchell could see nothing beyond it, but it didn’t deter him. He’d raced lines blind before. This shouldn’t be anything special.

His father’s warnings backed into the corner of his mind, Mitchell pulled into the oncoming lane to the left of the goat. Both cars rumbled loudly, the Cadillac’s larger V8 throatier and guttural. The driver’s side window peeled down to reveal the goat still chewing on his cigar. The hand not clutching the steering wheel came up to show the pink slip crumpled up between two fingers. With his shade-hidden gaze still locked on Mitchell, he slowly and deliberately placed the pink slip on his dashboard.

Mitchell returned the gesture. His own title was in the glovebox where he’d left it. While maintaining a hard stare with the goat, he pulled it out and slapped it on the dash with a defiant whap! It sat there rattling from the engine, one line of bold text standing out amongst the rest: MITCHELL M. SPROUSE. The goat nodded with a grin, then rolled his window back up.

People were gathered around the street corners to watch. Others were on their way to the other end of Grapevine to see who would win. The competitors sat there revving their engines, waiting for someone to signal the race. A petite doe in a cropped pair of jean shorts and a slim-cut shirt strutted into the street between them. Along the way she received hoots and whistles from those who appreciated her beauty. They went ignored. Once in place, she did a gay spin to face the two drivers and stood with her high heels shoulder width apart. One dainty hand went into the air above her head, a red and white bandana pinched between her fingers. Her liner-wreathed eyes met both gentlemen to see if they were ready. Confirmation came in the form of some atmosphere-shattering revs of their engines.

The onlookers cheered. Mitchell didn’t hear them. He gripped the steering column, knuckles stretching the skin, tendons bulged to the surface. His gaze did not wander to the doe or his opponent just a few yards away. He locked onto the street ahead, the voice of his father resurgent. Anywhere in the world but there. Mitchell drowned it out with another rev of the engine. His foot fell on the brake as he put the car into gear. The rear tires went into a squealing whirlwind, throwing up smoke and spitting rubber. Brakes good and tires fair, Mitchell’s jaw clenched as he eyed the gates in front of him, ready for the bandana to drop.

The doe stood still for just a second more, then swung her arm down.

Both cars shot forward, blowing past the vulnerable doe and blowing the hair on her head. They vanished into the street, headlights dashing about the trees, roaring engines echoing into the distance until they couldn’t be heard anymore. At the intersection were four trails of smokey skidmarks, the smell of burnt rubber, gasoline, and sulfur heavy in the air. 

All of that was behind Mitchell whose foot was to the metal, the frame of his car rattling him like a pebble in a tin can. In his peripherals blurred the many crooked trees. The Cadillac’s headlights ebbed backwards as he took the lead. It was deafening inside the car, every subtle notch in the street’s surface ripping into the frame and resonating through Mitchell’s bones. His paw went to the gear shift. He kicked it into the next, then the next, letting his RPM needle jab into the red before he would shift again.

Eyes on the road. One hand on the wheel. Ears folded back against his head. He ignored the instinct screaming at him just as loudly as the surrounding chaos to look and see where the opponent was. Not yet. Not until he’d hit a rhythm. This road was new to him, untamed wilderness. Every turn would be a surprise. Until he knew what he was doing, he wouldn’t let the goat bother him.

The first turn barreled into view. Soft right. He jammed the gear shift towards him, chilling the engine into a tamer rumble. The steering column jerked and jimmied as he pulled it right. G-forces tugged him towards the left as the two golden lines swerved along the bend. The street straightened out, and so did he. Not a beat was missed before he threw it back into gear and careened forth at full speed.

A long stretch of road ahead. A dark blue sky littered with stars wedging down the middle of a leafy chalice. The needle climbed up the speedometer. The RPM hit the red where it stayed in the second to highest gear. Mitchell took a moment to wriggle in his seat. The fury had died down, at least for now. When the next bend inevitably materialized in his high beams he would have to react. Soft, medium, or hard, he was ready to pull on the wheel however as hard as he needed to. For the first time since his Lincoln christened Grapevine with its rubber, Mitchell took a glimpse at the rear view mirror.

It was empty. The Cadillac wasn’t behind him like he thought it would be. Mitchell looked over to the right-side mirror. Nothing. He looked to the left. Also, nothing. Across the black that surrounded his car and suffocated the road there wasn’t a single sign of the goat or his Cadillac. Mitchell didn’t let off the gas, but a frown came upon his face. Damn, did I really dust him that easily? No way he passed me. Another look at the rearview mirror confirmed that the road was bereft of any cars. Mitchell looked ahead, reminding himself that no matter where his opponent was, he had to focus on the road. The next turn would come at any second.

But it didn’t. Several seconds of racing forward and not a single bend in the road presented itself. The ground didn’t even elevate or depress. It was just a straightaway for as far as the headlights could reach. The words What the fuck were mouthed on Mitchell’s lips. He looked into all his mirrors one more time to confirm he wasn’t crazy, then looked at the road ahead. No Cadillac. No turns. For the first time since the race started, Mitchell relaxed his press on the pedal. I hope the poor bastard didn’t crash. Maybe he should’ve been listening to my dad more than I was. 

His scoff was interrupted by something in the rearview mirror. A tiny light, bright but far away, plipped into existence at the very far point of the road behind him. It didn’t glow like headlights. It flickered and twinkled like a star. It grew closer. The trees around it were illuminated by its white-amber light. Still far away, it devoured the distance between Mitchell with horrifying speed. 

Mitchell should’ve reacted to the coming light by refocusing on the race. It had to have been the goat coming closer. What the hell else could it have been? Grab the gear, hit the pedal, and speed back up. Keep your lead.

Mitchell didn’t do any of that. Seeing that light on his tail struck him with a dread he’d never felt in the driver’s seat before, one that stabbed into his heart with icy sharpness and bled throughout his limbs into the digits. He wasn’t looking at the road. His gaze remained fixed on that speeding light, now a crackling ball of hot fire melting the asphalt beneath it. The thrum of his engine was but a distant buzz next to the crackling flames now so close he could feel their heat creeping up his spine, paralyzing him. 

When he recognized the flaming Cadillac the trees at its flanks started to combust. Fire ripped through the front grill, spun off the tires, and flew off the half-melted engine block to leave an infinitely long trail of embers dying in the wake. All that hellish light and still the car’s black paint did not appear, its great depth a snapshot of what waits for all. It pulled up on Mitchell’s right, where it had been when the race started. A terrified Mitchell watched as it slowed to his pace and slowly lowered its driver’s side window.

There was the goat, his shit-eating grin at full tilt, the cigar a half-burnt stump of ash trapped in those snaggled gray chompers. One rotten hand was laid on the steering wheel like during a Sunday drive. The other grabbed his shades, now perfectly appropriate in the burning light that consumed his vehicle, and pulled them down. He had no eyes but empty sockets as black as the chariot he rode, and yet they pierced Mitchell to his very core, drawing to the surface every traumatic memory within a flash of horror, sadness, and grief.

“Hey, Mitch!” said the goat, his jaw not moving, each syllable accompanied by a puff of smoke from through the grill of his teeth. It was not cigar smoke, but that of a gruesome fire that burned far deeper within his jiggling gut. “Havin’ fun? I know we are!” His voice came clearly as if he were sitting right next to Mitchell, there being no rumble of the engine or blasting of the flames. He was a voice in the boy’s head, as real as his own thoughts. “You still got your pink slip, right? I got mine!”

Against his will Mitchell looked at the title on his dashboard. The same name greeted him from before. Now it was in a slanted script, penned by an expert calligraphist and in an ink a brilliant scarlet. 

The pink color of the car title was gone. It was an old, ragged parchment yellowed by time, 27 years to be exact. In a few months it would be 28. Mitchell wasn’t racing for his car anymore. He was racing for his soul.

Mitchell screamed. He tore his fear-contorted gaze from the Cadillac and back to the road, greeting himself with that endless stretch of road now pitting him into the depths of hell. The goat cackled in his ear. “Hey! Don’t worry about the road, partner! Ain’t nothin’ but a straightaway from here to eternity!” He let out a throat-bouncing cackle, the smoke billowing from his mouth sputtered with the embers of molten brimstone.

Another sound joined his laughter, something even more sinister and morose. A low drone at first, it grew into a deafening crescendo. One voice, then two, then several, then many, many dozens at least. Wails of agony and grief, the unending suffering of those bound into by God’s punishment. The noise reached out to Mitchell from his right, clawing at his eardrum like a burst of sound directed right into it. He flinched away with a boyish squeal and dared to look.

Those wafts of smoke were back, this time in full force. They whipped, swept, and wavered across the Cadilac’s façade, now bright with the ripples of a thousand souls trapped and forced to suffer. Spirits and ghouls, their apparitions staining the car’s body, all howled in a terrible unison. Mitchell saw their faces materialize from the silvery bodies quickly before they melted away and reformed as another. A twirling tempest. A conglomerate of suffering and the gnashing of teeth. Their caterwauls were hot with the burning of pain, envy, wrath, and ecstasy. A woman’s voice moaned, so did a man’s. With their torment was the nauseating mix of an orgasm’s blissful peak ripping through them with all emotions lovely and loathsome.

The eyeless devil caught Mitchell and his slack jawed stare. He reached a beefy arm out of the window and slapped the outside of the door. With the impact came a sharp screech and moan from the trapped spirits. “Come on, Mitch. You hear how good it is! I know you wanna join us!”

Mitchell saw himself in their orgy, his body, mind and spirit locked with them in that perpetual orgasm. For a moment he wasn’t scared. Grapevine Hill melted away, so did the demon driving that Cadillac. There was only him and the many companions he would find himself in a carnal embrace with, hips thrusting, holes filled, seed spitting. A look of dumb ecstasy sagged his face and rolled his eyes into his skull. His eyelids twitched and his pelvis humped. A budding erection pulled the head of his penis out of his dog sheathe.

He snapped out of it. “NO!” Both his hands went to the steering wheel. He pushed himself back into the seat and slammed his foot down on the gas as hard as he possibly could. I’m not gonna let him take me. I’M NOT GONNA LET HIM TAKE ME.

A cackle from the goat. “Hah! Your loss, boy.” His window rolled up, blocking Mitchell’s view of him. Vrrrr-RRRRRRMMMMM! The Cadillac gained momentum. The wailing grew louder. Tails of flame spewed from the exhaust and out the half-molten engine block. Mitchell felt the heat permeating through the cabin of his Lincoln, blistering the paint and melting the windshield. The road ahead brightened into an oven of flame, eternity opening its gates for him.

“NO!” screamed Mitchell. He slammed the gas as hard as he could, but he could not close the distance. The deed to his soul began to burn by the edges, the embers encroaching on his blood signature. “NO! NO NO NO!” The screams of the damned grew louder and more familiar. They rang in his head like the devil’s had. The heat clawing at his car burned felt ready to ignite the fur on his body. Hell awaited.

Then, sunlight. Just a few rays of it peeked through the forest and swept the road. Just like that, the Cadillac dissipated like it was made of sand. No more flames, no more heat, no more goat. Mitchell was alone. He and his Lincoln were fine.

That was until he met the next bend in the road, now long overdue. A stunned Mitchell slammed the brakes and pulled at the wheel as hard as he could. The Lincoln screeched on its wheels, nearly toppling over and slamming into the trees. But Mitchell was too good a driver. Even amidst his terror he got control of the car. He didn’t stop driving. No, he was going to get the fuck off this goddamn hill even if it killed him. Nobody was there to see it, but it was the finest bit of driving he’d ever done in his life.

That was until he finally made it to the end of Grapevine Hill. It was in the early phases of sunset, and there weren’t any fans to greet him at the finish line. In their stead were two cop cars. They’d come to break up the race and send home everyone who’d come to watch it. Here came Mitchell and his Lincoln barreling down the road full tilt, tires burnt to the nub, tank running on fumes.

In a brief moment of clarity Mitchell slammed the brakes and finally came to a stop within a few yards of the two cop cars. Heart pounding and his lungs hyperventilating, Mitchell threw the car door open and leaped out. He pointed behind him, the purest look of terror either cop had seen on his face. He jabbered madly, going on about some goat and a car on fire. “He’s after my soul! He’s after my soul!” screamed the boy.

The officers got out of their vehicles. They tried calming him, but he wouldn’t listen. When one officer tried to put a hand on his wrist, Mitchell pulled away with a frightened shriek. He was quickly wrestled to the ground, put in cuffs, and guided into the back of one of the cop cars. Mitchell wheezed and wept the whole time, boyish tears streaking down his face. “He’s coming for my soul!” he repeated. “My soul! Don’t let him take my soul!” He howled his throat raw, burning what was left of his energy by the time he got to the local jail. Eyes red, cheeks puffy, he barely knew where he was or what was happening while being booked. He was given a cell to himself where he promptly fell asleep. Mercifully, he didn’t have any dreams.

Clang clang clang. “Sprouse!”

Mitchell jerked awake. He was half-curled on top of the mat, facing the cinderblock wall. He twisted around to see the CO, a lynx, looking at him through the cell door window. “Yeah?” he croaked.

“Your daddy’s posted bail. Come on.”

A mix of relief and dread twisted Mitchell’s gut. He all but launched himself out of bed. “Oh shit,” he said under his breath. The CO unlocked his door and led him to the front lobby. There awaited his pops, a shorter, stouter version of Mitchell wearing an oily white T-shirt and some faded jeans. He greeted Mitchell with a stern expression, not the furious one Mitchell expected. Mitchell tried to remain calm, but he was already breaking. Head down, eyes tearing up, he walked right up to his dad and gave him a hug which was returned. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, dad,” sobbed Mitchell, shaking like a leaf. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

He got a pat on the back. “It’s OK, buddy. I know, I know. I’m just glad your safe.” He rubbed his son’s back before the two men let go of each other. “DA’s hitting you with reckless driving and resisting arrest, but I know a good lawyer who can knock the last one off. You’re gonna have to deal with the first one.”

Mitchell sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Yeah, I got that.”

“You’re lucky I know the guy who towed your car. We’ll get that back for free.” He patted Mitchell’s shoulder. “Come on, boy. Let’s take you home.” The two men left the station and gathered into his father’s pickup truck. They were silent while pulling out of the parking lot. Mitchell was slumped against the passenger window, watching as the police station peeled away. “You saw him, didn’t you?” his dad asked finally.

Mitchell kept his gaze out the window. “Yeah. I did.”

“Is he still driving that Cadillac?”

“Yeah…” 

His dad nodded. “Figures. I think he does that to scare folk. I don’t think he’s the real devil, but all he needs is his opponents to think that. Now you know why I told you never to racing on that hill.”

“Yeah, but you never said anything about any fucking goat devils.”

His dad scoffed. “Shit, would you have believed me if I did?”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Mitchell laughed. It was weak, but it was real. “Nah, I don’t think I would’ve.”

His dad smiled and patted his son’s knee. “I love you.”

Mitchell sniffled and wiped his nose. “I love you too, dad.”