Maybe if I hadn‘t pushed him so hard. Or so soon. Maybe if I

hadn‘t allowed my own guilt and fear to make me hesitate

before I plunged into the ravine after him, then maybe I could

have saved him. It took a full ten seconds of listening to his

agonized groans before I could force myself to gaze down at

what used to be my son. He‘d landed directly on his head, but

the helmet did nothing to prevent his neck twisting halfway

around his body under the power of the impact. He‘d been

jarred so hard that part of his spine ruptured straight through

his skin to greet the air with a bloody shine.

Screw competing. If he even survived a trip to the hospital,

then I‘d still spend the rest of my life feeding him with a spoon.

But this was my fault and he was my son, so there could never

be a choice. I took the first step of the never ending journey

down the slope toward him.

―Let‘s go home, Dad.‖

The words should have been enough to bring tears to my

eyes, but instead I froze in the grip of absolute terror. It wasn‘t

my son who said it – I didn‘t even know if my son could talk

anymore. I turned slowly, careful not to lose my grip on the

pebbled earth and topple helplessly down the ravine.

―I‘m okay Dad. Let‘s go.‖

Andrew – or at least someone who looked exactly like my son,

all the way down to his freckles and the mustard stain on his

sleeve – was waiting for me on the top of the hill. Back down the

ravine, I still saw the twisted and broken version of the same

boy lying there.

―Come on,‖ the unharmed Andrew said. ―Race you back.‖

He hopped on his bike and skidded fearlessly along the

hillside. His speed and dexterity surpassed the old Andrew,

even on his best days. As beautiful as it was watching him fly

over the rocks, the sight was impossible to appreciate with the

wet gurgle of coughing blood sounding from further down.

I had to make a choice, and judging by the amount of blood

pooling on the rocks below, I had to make it fast. I could go

down the treacherous slope and lift my son into my arms. I

could drag him to the hospital, burning through my energy and

savings in the vain fight toward a subnormal life. I could explain

to Amy that I had lied to her, and that it was my fault that our

life would never be the same. And if after all that Andrew were

still to die, then I know she would leave me and I would have

nothing left.

―Don‘t worry Dad. We‘re going to win next time. I promise.‖

Or I could turn around and leave with … with what?

Watching him race up and down the hills, the answer was

obvious. I could turn around and leave with my son, and none

of this will have ever happened.

―I‘ll be right there,‖ I said. ―First one home gets ice cream for

dinner.‖

Climbing up the hill after Andrew – after my son – it wasn‘t

as hard as I thought it would be. It was abject relief to see his

beaming face waiting for me at the top. The only hard part was

when I had already lost sight of the ravine and was headed

home, only to hear a voice dissipating on the wind behind me.

―Please don‘t go. I need you Dad.‖

I gripped my son‘s hand – my new son – and held on tight all

the way home.

For the next few weeks, I wouldn‘t let Andrew out of my

sight. I drove him to school instead of letting him take the bus. I

picked him up for lunch, then again when school got out, taking

him to his favorite places and spending all of my time helping

him practice. I was trying my best to be a good father, and

trying even harder not to think about what that meant. I thought

about going back to the ravine to at least bury the body, but

every time I began to work up enough courage to face that

broken corpse, my new son seemed to appear wanting to spend

time with me.

By the end of the first month, life had gone back to normal

and it was like nothing ever happened. The new Andrew was

identical to the old, even sharing the same memories, and

habits, and everything. By the second month, I‘d even forgotten

that horrible day ever passed, although sometimes the echo of

those words being torn by the wind still slip into my brain as I

lay down to sleep at night.

I need you Dad.

But I was a good father. I did everything for my boy, and I

knew he was going to repay me by becoming the best biker the

world had ever seen.

It wasn‘t until Andrew was 12 years old when I began to

notice behavioral anomalies that I couldn‘t explain. But surely

the real Andrew – I mean the old Andrew – he would have had

his own changes by this age. I tried to tell myself that he was

just starting to go through puberty, but even Amy began to feel

that something wasn‘t right.

―Do you know what I caught Andrew doing last night?‖ she

told me one morning over breakfast.

―He‘s going to be a teenager soon. I‘m sure I don‘t want to know.‖

―He was eating a bug!‖ she declared. ―A big shiny cockroach.

Just munching it right up, looking as proud as a kitty cat who

caught his first mouse.‖

Then there was the rustling outside our window late at night.

A dozen separate occasions I must have heard it – like someone

was in the bushes watching us. Amy wanted me to check it out,

but I just kept imagining Andrew running through the field like

a wild creature, biting the heads off animals or digging up

worms. I think I was happier not knowing.

It wasn‘t just that either. Some nights we‘d catch him awake

at four in the morning, face an inch from the mirror, just staring

at himself and giggling. Another time he had a butterfly knife –

God knows where he got it – and was peeling away the skin on

the back of his hand. He‘d exposed a strip of bloody muscle and

tendons running all the way from the tip of his finger running

halfway up his forearm. I took the knife away and demanded

what he was doing, but all he said was:

―Just curious what goes on under there, Dad.‖

He grinned when he said Dad, stressing the word like it was

our shared secret. Neither of us had ever mentioned that day on

the hillside, but it felt like he not only remembered, but was

actively using it to blackmail me.

The worst was when he was trying to get something out of

me, like when he decided he needed a laptop. I told him to wait

for his birthday and turned to leave, but then he replied with:

―Please don‘t go. I need you Dad.‖

Those words were burned into my subconscious like a trigger.