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I wrapped my arms around the apron that adorned my body and slid my gaze across the crowd. The town square was full of people mobbing a street that vehicles usually drove down, but tonight, it was blocked off by a stage in the middle of the road. Music pumped loudly, synced with the flashing of colored lights, and the beat of the drums matched the swaying of the horde of people.

Two-story buildings suiting business, that had all been monopolized by Robert O’Connor, lined either side of the cracked pavement. Picket fences with iron spikes fronted the few unoccupied residences that would eventually be transitioned into something else. It all looked the same, other than the signs that seemed out of place amongst such a richly historic town.

And then there it was. The Thibodeauxs’ restaurant. The lights inside were warm, and shadows of people danced across the windows that were canopied by the same ugly striped fabric awnings I’d convinced my parents to tear down. Metal tables were scattered about in front of their brickbuilding with a neon sign half lit up, sparkling through the blazing stage lights.

Thibodeaux’s Cajun Comfortstared back at me, as if mocking me. Taunting the fact that only one was going to survive. That one family would have to give up everything while the other would finally win. A fucking dumb rivalry that both Ford and I had once tried to dismantle, but the hate ran thicker than blood.

Somehow, that disdain had crept into my own skin. I wasn’t proud of it, but all I wanted was for my parents to be able to finally relax. That was it. And here I was, staring at the same sign all these years later that represented the one final thing that hadn’t changed.

Their door suddenly flew open. I squinted through the crowd as Ford stumbled backward. He looked so small and broken, so unusually tired, as the woman I knew to be his mom wagged a spoon at him. Her free hand flew to her hip as she slapped the back of the spoon against the side of Ford’s arm.

He flinched, and for a moment, the image of my cousin Lenny wailing his fist into Ford’s side crashed in front of my eyes. Ford was twelve again. I was twelve. And we knew nothing of what lay ahead.

A tear slid down my cheek as Ford’s mom turned and stomped back inside, slamming the door behind her with a rattle of the frame. With his size, he would’ve easily been able to overpower her, but instead, he stood frozen with his head hung and that same stupid baseball cap turned backwards.

Every overstimulating sound was drowned out by the pain that clearly radiated from his frame. Despite everything that screamed happiness and ajoyous reunion around him, it seemed fate had other ideas for him. I wasn’t sure if he deserved this much hate or not.

But every time I had an inkling of forgiveness well up within me, I was quickly reminded of the earth-shattering devastation he’d left behind.

Slowly, Ford turned. The intricate details of his face, hidden by the distance between us and skewed by the colorful lights flashing from the stage, seemed distorted. He plopped himself down on an empty chair outside the restaurant. I crept forward, weaving quietly through the crowd, uncertain of what drew me toward him, but I was moving anyway.

When there was finally enough light that I could make out the planes of his face, I paused, confused by his expression. It seemed like pain, but… not? It was like he was here but wasn’t. His gaze was so distant that a world of war raged within his eyes.

It was strange. Ford had always been so full of life that this look seemed ill-fitting for him. As purples and pinks, greens and oranges, danced across his face, everything about him seemed the opposite of the joyous music surrounding us. He was a ghost with a thousand-yard stare, seeing absolutely nothing.

And I suddenly knew what that look was. I’d never seen a look like that before in real life.

Only in the textbooks I’d studied, which made it seem even more strange that it happened to be on Ford’s face.TheThousand-Yard Stare. A look that haunted me because I feared the day someone would show up to my clinic with it, thinking it was a physical ailment that I could cure. I wasn’t a psychologist. I was a general family physician.

Yet, there it was.

If the medical community wanted an updated photo to teach new residents what it looked like, I could’ve snapped one and sent it in. I’d known fifteen years would change someone, but how cruel were those fifteen years to warp someone so gentle so much?

I shook my head, refusing to believe that I was actually looking at Ford with that expression on his face. While I couldn’t make out the colors of his eyes, even from this distance I could tell how blank they were. So…lifeless. So unblinking and unfocused. I wanted to rationalize that his pupil dilation was a result of the dim lights of the evening, but I couldn’t.

Not as flashes from the stage in the middle of the street flickered across his face. It didn’t startle him. It didn’t jolt him out of whatever dissociated state he was in, and it tore my heart in two. My fingers begged to reach out and gently caress his cheek. To feel that familiar warmth of his skin beneath my touch once more. To sink into the steady safety that he had always been. Not for my own personal gain, but for his. I wanted to offer him comfort from whatever battle raged within his head.

But I simply stood still, watching the boy I’d loved morph into a man I knew nothing about.

“I was promised I could go hang with friends at eight. It’s eight, and—” Azelie’s voice sheared through my thoughts and then cut off before she spoke her final thought.

I glanced to my right at the almost-fifteen-year-old girl who had the same frizzy red hair that all of us LeBlancs were cursed with. She looked like me. Everyone in town always commented about how she was like a mini version of me.

“Who’she?” she added as I stared at her face, which had yet to be hit with the woes of adulthood.

“Hmmm?” I muttered and turned to gaze back at Ford, who still hadn’t moved a centimeter.

“He has that look that Cory’s brother got last year during the Fourth of July fireworks. Do you remember that?” Azelie muttered.

I nodded, unable to pry my eyes away from such a hollow and haunted expression. It was similar to Mark’s look, but this was…deeper, even more intense. “It’s called the ‘Thousand-Yard Stare.’”

“Wait, I think I heard about that. We talked about that in history class during our World War II section,” she replied.

“That’s when the term was coined. It doesn’t require someone going to war, but it’s usually a result of something as traumatic as that,” I mindlessly explained.

“So, why do you think he’s got that look?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I could lie and simply shrug my shoulders, playing it off like he was some traveler who was in town for the festival. That was easily believable considering she had no idea who he was, and I wasn’t about to tell her. But I also refused to lie to her—mostly. I’d told her one lie. One lie that only three people, including me, knew to be a lie. Otherwise, I was always honest with her.