Chapter Twelve: The Son Left Behind
*One Day Before The President Was Shot*
Jackson threw another shirt into the suitcase, not caring how wrinkled it became. He was packing fast, angrily, shoving things in as though the harder he packed, the less it would hurt.
This apartment felt weird for being so silent. His father was looking at him while standing by the door.
He had red eyes from another sleepless night, the kind of man who had aged ten years in one week.
"This is the best I can do, son," his father finally spoke quietly, and it sounded rough from holding back too much.
Jackson clenched his fists, and tightened his jaw so hard-it was going to break. "The best you can do is send me away?"
His father took a step closer, sighing and making this pained expression on his face. "They'll be watching us, Jack. If you stay, you'll go down with us. This way, you still have a chance."
