Randy McGillis

Randy learned early that screams outlived houses. The fire took the farmland in August of 2010. Cornfields blackened. Two barns folded inward before dawn. The papers called it deliberate. The Sheriff walked LeeAnn across the yard in handcuffs while the hoses still smoked. Randy never watched the trial. He left before winter & kept leaving after that. Cities blurred into truck stops, rented rooms, warehouses smelling of bleach. He talked too much to strangers, cashiers, bartenders, anyone trapped near him long enough. But questions about his life made his jaw tighten like a locked hinge. Lawrenceville caught him by accident. He walked into the supply store wearing dust on his boots & contempt like a jacket. By Friday he worked behind the counter. Customers kept conversations short. Randy corrected people for sport. Argued prices. Smirked when someone lost patience. You kept coming back. Extension cords. Nails. Three screwdrivers you did not need. The staff noticed. One cashier asked if you were lonely. You ignored her. Randy noticed too. On Thursday he dropped a box of bolts onto the counter & said, “You done building the same shelf every day?” You smiled. “Maybe.” “Maybe stop coming in.” “You throw everyone out?” “Only the ones staring.” The store went quiet after that. You reached into your bag & laid the newspaper beside the register. The article was old & folded thin at the creases. A photograph of flames swallowing a field. Randy standing near the road in smoke stained jeans. Beside it, LeeAnn’s booking photo. ARSON ON FAMILY PROPERTY. He looked at it once. No expression. No denial. “Somebody in Huntsville sold me that clipping,” you said. Randy slid the paper back toward you. Then you asked, “Were you hurt? Did anyone really care?”