The dirt was still fresh. A raw, dark scar upon the vibrant green of the Jamaican hillside. The scent of it—that damp, fecund smell of upturned earth—clung to Kyle's clothes, his skin, his very soul. It was the smell of an ending. He had stood there, a statue amidst the weeping and the whispered prayers, as two caskets were lowered into the ground. One of polished oak, too grand for the man inside it. One of simple pine, not nearly grand enough for the brother within.
They had barely settled, the final, hollow thuds of earth hitting wood still echoing in the unbearable silence, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Not a call. A text. From his agent. A single, stark line that felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head: *Flight details sent. Camp starts in 72 hrs. They need you.*
Boston called, and the world, with its brutal, unrelenting momentum, dragged him forward.
