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Sagebriar's Poets
Chapter 1
Evan Carter had learned long ago not to get too comfortable, everything could change in the blink of an eye. As if on cue, the reflection of his own face warped into someone he didn’t recognize. “Scream,” someone who wasn’t real whispered behind Evan. “They’re taking us somewhere bad. Roll down the window and scream.” Evan turned, but no one was there. “Evan,” said a different voice, a woman’s voice from the front seat.
“Yes ma’am?” He asked aloud.
“I didn’t say anything, dear,” Mrs. McGraw said.
“Evan,” the voice came again, a soft whisper, this time from inside his own skull. “They’re not going to love you, Evan. They’ll never love us.”
Evan took a deep breath and sat with his back stiff in the back seat of the car, hands folded in his lap and staring out the window as the city blurred past. Think about the city, ignore the voices. The buildings here were old, sagging under the weight of bad weather and worse luck. He could see his new home ahead, an apartment building stacked in uneven brick layers like someone had built it in a hurry.
His new foster parents, Curtis and Ellen McGraw, were talking in the front seat, but he wasn’t listening. Something about Tucker, their son, and how he was “adjusting” to the idea of having another kid in the house. The word “adjusting” stuck in Evan’s mind. It meant “not happy about it, but too polite to say so.”
The McGraws’ apartment was clean but lived-in, a place where the floors creaked just enough to remind Evan it had history. The scent of something fried still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint detergent smell of fresh laundry. Evan hesitated in the doorway, his duffel bag–his only new possession, purchased by the McGraw’s–hung from his shoulder, his jacket feeling too warm for January in Georgia. He waited for someone to tell him where to go.
“This way, kiddo,” Hank McGraw said, patting him on the back and motioning toward the hallway. Hank wasn’t a big man, but his voice carried the type of low and easy authority that didn’t need to be raised.
“No! This way!” a voice whispered. Evan didn’t recognize it so he ignored it and tried to pretend he couldn’t hear it. “You’re going the wrong way. They’re going to hurt you now.”
Evan followed Hank down the hall, past a cluttered bookshelf, and a few framed family photos. Most of them were of Tucker, baby pictures and highschool photos. They were dated by year, ending this year, 2029. So Tucker must have been the same age as Evan–sixteen, give or take a year.
Evan’s room was small, but it had a bed, a desk, and a window overlooking the street. A folded stack of clean clothes sat on the mattress, waiting for him. They smelled like fabric softener, the nice kind. Publix brand, not Wal-Mart. A family who would spend a little extra for a little more comfort. Middle-class, or just below it and pretending.
Evan unpacked until he heard the call: “Dinner’s ready.”
Evan took a deep breath and stepped out. The kitchen was small but tidy, its linoleum floor mopped and the table a sturdy and well-worn oak with a few faint knife marks near the edges. They were signs of life, of meals cooked, stories told, and time spent. The lights overhead cast a warm, anemic glow over everything. Ellen McGraw sat at the far end of the table, her blouse pressed, blonde hair always pinned up halfway between church-goer and housewife. Hank, on the other hand, looked every bit a man who spent his days on his feet. He had broad shoulders, weathered hands, an easy but firm presence. His face and arms sported a deep farmer’s tan and he had a black moustache just below his nose.
Tucker slouched in his chair. The oversized t-shirt he wore slipped off one bony shoulder, the collar stretched out like it had been tugged on too many times. He was thin like he’d been sick for a long time and had only just started pulling himself back together. His arms looked too long for how narrow he was, his knuckles were sharp under pale skin, and though he wasn’t coughing or sniffling, there was something frail in his frame and eyes and the bruise-colored bags under them.
Evan took his seat quiet and careful, trying not to scrape his chair against the floor. The platters in front of them were full of pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans, and cornbread. It was a meal Evan thought felt like home. But Tucker barely acknowledged his, and Evan wasn’t sure yet if his own would even be real when he put it in his mouth.
He looked down at his empty plate and his reflection in it. There was his strawberry-blonde hair, in a permanent state of being wind-tousled no matter how often he brushed it, and his brown eyes underneath. He was pale–not as much as Tucker, but enough to suggest a life spent indoors. His reflection whispered, “Don’t eat the food. It’s poison, they hate you, you can’t eat it.”
“Evan, dear, would you like to say grace?” Ellen asked.
Evan broke his gaze away from the plate. “I . . . don’t know how.”
Ellen smiled and said, “That’s ok, dear. Tucker, you want to go instead?”
Ellen looked disappointed but just said, “That’s fine, honey.”
Evan kept his hands still in his lap, while she said a quick prayer, pressing his fingers together like it might ground him. The kitchen was stable . . . for now. The light overhead wasn’t shifting colors, the walls weren’t breathing, and the silverware wasn’t twitching like it wanted to crawl off the table. But it didn’t mean things would stay this way. It never did.
It could start small–a ripple in a glass of water, a shadow stretching too far across the floor, a voice whispering just below the range of hearing. Most of the time, he could tell when things weren’t real. Most of the time, he could blink them away. But sometimes, when it got bad? He struggled to remind himself the world wasn’t melting, his food wasn’t moving, and the people sitting across from him were humans.
If he wanted to stay here, he had to keep it together. If he wanted to stay here, he had to be perfect. He was so tired of bouncing around homes when people finally realized how difficult it was to live with someone who had mental illnesses.
“Amen,” Ellen said. The others started to dig into their meal. Evan watched them for a bit longer to make sure the nausea and headache he had weren’t signs of an impending delusion. When nothing happened, when the world stayed normal, then he began to fill his plate.
The next day, Evan spent the last hour doing everything right. His room was spotless. He had double-checked his homework, paying attention to his writing to keep it neat and even. He’d even offered to help with dinner before Ellen had a chance to ask. Because this had to work. Because if he wasn’t perfect, he’d be replaceable.
He stood at the kitchen counter, rolling up his sleeves and trying not to feel like a guest in his own home. The scent of something warm and savory filled the air. Ellen had been cooking for the past hour, the slow and deliberate effort that made meals feel like more than just food. “Just set the plates out, sweetheart,” Ellen had said, her voice as light as ever. “You don’t need to do everything.”
But Evan needed to. He needed to prove he was useful, to prove he wasn’t a burden, to prove he deserved to be here. Tucker sat at the table, spinning a fork between his fingers, watching Evan without directly looking at him. Evan ignored him and focused on the dishes, plates, cups, and napkins. Be careful. Don’t mess up.
And then it happened. He had an episode. He felt the nausea, the headaches, all while the china plate in his hand turned into a face, smiling at him with sharp teeth and yellow eyes. It bit into his hand. He felt the needle-like teeth dig into his skin, pierce the flesh, and stab deep into his muscles and tendons. Full-sensory hallucinations.
Evan yelped in pain and threw the plate away from himself. It hit the wall with a sharp, splintering crash. For half a second, no one moved. The air in the kitchen felt too thick, too still. Evan’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the shattered porcelain, jagged pieces spreading across the floor like a crime scene. Tucker made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh, but quickly smothered it, schooling his face into neutrality before Ellen turned around to see what broke.
Evan saw the exact second she recognized what it was. Her hands froze in mid-motion, hovering over the pot on the stove. The silence stretched too long. Then Ellen inhaled sharply, plastering a smile over whatever emotion had flickered in her eyes.
“Oh, it’s fine, sweetheart,” she said, her voice too careful and measured. “It’s just a plate.” But it wasn’t. She bent down, sweeping up the pieces with delicate hands like she could somehow put it back together if she was careful enough. Evan crouched to help, but she caught his wrist, stopping him. “I’ve got it,” she said, voice light, but her grip unsteady.
Evan knew the tone. The same one people used when they were holding back something else. She excused herself a moment later, retreating down the hall with the shards of porcelain cradled in her hands, her footsteps faster than normal. A few seconds later, Evan heard it. It was soft, barely more than a breath: the sound of Ellen crying. His stomach twisted. He had ruined it. One stupid mistake and now he was going to lose this family, too. He stood there, staring at the empty doorway, swallowing against the feeling of failure curling in his chest. His eyes started to water. He wiped at them to hide it from Tucker but it was too late.
Tucker sighed, sounding resigned. Evan felt Tucker step up beside him, arms crossed loose over his chest. He wasn’t looking at Evan, just staring somewhere past him. “You know, when I was nine we, uh . . . we had this fish,” Tucker said, voice softer than Evan had ever heard it. “Little thing. A beta fish. Mom named it ‘Ruth Beta Ginsburg.’ Thought it was clever at the time, I guess.”
Evan blinked, confused. “Okay . . .?”
Tucker let out a quiet huff of laughter, like he wasn’t sure why he was saying it either. “I thought, since he was small, he needed to eat more. Didn’t want him to starve or whatever. So I kept feeding him.” Tucker finally looked at him. “He didn’t starve,” Tucker said, rubbing the back of his neck. “He, uh . . . kinda did the opposite.” The corner of Evan’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. Tucker shrugged. “Anyway. My point is . . . now we’ve both made her cry. Not just you. So don’t think they’ll just send you back over this.” Tucker frowned. “You gotta handle yourself better. I won’t always be here to pat your head when you think you’re going back.”
Days later, Evan was finally starting to feel comfortable enough to use the TV without asking. Red Sky by Moon Hooch came alive in the living room. Evan settled into the couch, scrolling through Spotify on the smart TV, letting the beat thrum through his ribs. He didn’t own much, but music felt like something–one of the few things–belonging to him. He flicked through the suggested tracks, pausing now and then to favorite a few. A notification popped up. “Added to Liked Songs.” Evan barely had time to register it before a voice snapped across the room.
Evan jumped, the remote slipping from his hand. Tucker stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression already tight with irritation.
“Uh–” Evan fumbled, glancing between him and the TV. “I was just listening–”
Tucker strode forward and snatched the remote off the couch. “This is my account,” he said, stabbing a finger toward the screen. “Premium. Mine. Every time you like a song on here, it screws up the Spotify algorithm, and I don’t want it thinking that I’m anything like you.”
Evan flinched at the words, even though he told himself he shouldn’t. “I–sorry, I didn’t think–”
“Yeah, clearly,” Tucker said, his words clipped. “Just leave. I need to fix my account and get all of your weird-ass music off of it.”
Evan stood up, shoulders tight. He nodded, muttered another apology, and slipped upstairs feeling like he had done something horribly wrong. He sat on the bed in his room, not sure what to do with himself, watching the carpet swim.
Tucker found him spiraling away and interrupted with a quiet, “Hey.” He stood in the doorway of Evan’s room avoiding eye contact.
Evan sat up a little straighter. “Uh . . . hey?”
Tucker tilted his head toward the hall. “Come to my room.”
Evan blinked. That . . . did not sound like something Tucker would say. “You’re not about to shove me in a closet or something, right?” Evan asked.
Tucker rolled his eyes. “Just shut up and come on.”
Evan followed, wary. He expected something mean-spirited, some trick, but when he stepped inside Tucker was already pulling Spotify up on his phone. He looked over at Evan, studying him for a second like he was considering something. Then he held out his phone. “You ever made a playlist before?”
Evan shook his head. “Uh. No?”
Tucker nodded once, like he’d expected the answer. “Alright. Here.” He tapped the screen, pulled up a new list, then shoved the phone into Evan’s hands. “Make one.”
Evan hesitated. “For me?”
Tucker gave him a flat look. “No, for the fish I overfed when I was nine. Yes, for you.”
Evan stared at the blank playlist. Slowly, he started adding songs, the ones he’d favorited earlier, ones he knew he liked. Tucker didn’t interrupt or criticize. He just watched as Evan picked each song. When Evan finished, he handed the phone back. Tucker looked at it for a second. Then, without saying a word, he hit play.
The first song hummed through the speakers. Tucker leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. Evan hesitated before sitting down, too. He wasn’t sure what else to do. They sat there, letting the music speak where words didn’t. After a while, Tucker coughed, like he was forcing something out. “This is alright.”
Evan tried not to grin too hard. It was small, almost nothing, but still the closest thing to a compliment Tucker had ever given him. For a moment, just one small moment, Evan closed his eyes and wondered if this was what it felt like to be part of a family.
The knock at Evan’s door was quiet, almost hesitant. He sat up in bed, heart picking up pace. It was midnight. He knew because he’d been staring at the glowing numbers of his alarm clock for the past twenty minutes, watching them sway, too restless to sleep. His mind was racing over every tiny mistake he made since coming here and berating him for it. There was another knock, only a touch louder than the first. Evan hesitated only a second before sliding out of bed and walking to the door. He cracked it open.
Tucker stood in the dim light of the hallway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. “C’mon.”
Tucker’s eyes flicked toward their parents’ closed bedroom door. Then back to Evan. “Just shut up and follow me.”
They crept through the apartment in silence, Tucker leading the way with the ease of someone who’d done this before. The floor creaked in places, but neither of them spoke, Tucker just shot Evan a sharp look anytime he got too close to stepping wrong. They slipped through the balcony door on the third floor, stepping into the cool night air. The city droned around them–distant cars, the occasional siren, and the faint murmur of late-night conversations from open apartment windows. In the distance, the siren faded away into the rougher side of town.
Tucker pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Camel Crush, blue. He thumbed the menthol bead in the filter, crushing it with a quiet snap. He lit up, took a slow drag, then held the cigarette out toward Evan. Evan stared at it.
“Go on,” Tucker said. “Don’t tell me you’ve never smoked before.”
Of course he hadn’t, he didn’t want to. But Tucker watched him, waiting, so Evan took it. The cigarette felt awkward in his fingers, like he was holding a venomous insect. He mimicked Tucker’s movements, placing it between his lips, and inhaling. He regretted it right away. The smoke seared his throat and hit his lungs like he had just breathed in the fire and ash. He coughed, doubling over as his eyes watered and face reddened. He reached out to hand the cigarette back.
Tucker hissed and smacked him on the arm. “Geez, dude, shut up. Don’t get us caught, I don’t want to regret bringing you up here.” Evan nodded, still coughing, waving a hand like it would somehow fix his lungs. Tucker sighed and leaned back against the balcony railing, taking another drag. He chuckled at Evan gasping for air. “I don’t get you,” he muttered after a beat.
Evan wiped at his watering eyes. “What?”
Tucker exhaled a long stream of smoke, staring out at the dim city lights. “You’re trying too hard, man.”
Evan frowned. “Trying too hard at what?”
“Being perfect.” Tucker flicked ash off the side of the balcony. “Like you think if you keep your room clean enough, do enough chores, they’ll like you better than me or something.” Evan shifted. That wasn’t it, he wasn’t trying to do that. Was he? Tucker didn’t wait for him to answer. “I beat cancer, but I know it’ll just come back someday. I think they got you as a backup son for when I die.”
Holy shit. Evan’s stomach twisted. “That’s not–” He started, but before he could get the words out, he started to feel funny. His head was light and airy, he felt sharper and more alert even while he felt his body ease the tension and begin to relax. The world swam, just a bit, and Tucker laughed.
“Now you’re feeling it,” he said through a grin.
The cigarette pack in Tucker’s hand twitched. Evan’s heart lurched. He stared, blinking hard. The pack bulged, like something shifted inside it. A fat spider pulled itself free from the pack and moved to crawl up Tucker’s hand. Evan didn’t think, he just swatted the spider away before he even realized what he was doing. The pack of cigarettes flew from Tucker’s hand and tumbled off the balcony railing, spinning in the air before disappearing into the shadows below.
Tucker froze and turned to look at Evan, his expression darkening. “Are you serious?”
Evan stared down at where it had fallen, his pulse hammering. He looked everywhere for the spider, but began to realize it could have just been a hallucination from an episode. He wasn’t nauseous, had no headache–was it triggered by the nicotine? He screwed his eyes shut. “Oh my god. There was a–I am so sorry.”
Tucker groaned, rubbing his face. “You have no idea how hard it is to get a pack when you’re 16.”
Evan swallowed hard. “We can get it back.”
Tucker shot him a flat look. “What, you wanna just waltz down there in the middle of the night?”
Evan hesitated, then nodded. Tucker exhaled sharply, like he was considering saying no, but then shook his head. “Fine. But if we get caught, it’s on you.” They put out the cigarette and crept back inside, moving slower than before. Every floorboard, every shift in the apartment felt deafening. When they made it to the bottom floor, Tucker cracked open the door to the alley and peered out. The pack of cigarettes lay just a few feet away, caught on the edge of a puddle. Tucker breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the pack was still dry.
Tucker slipped outside first, motioning for Evan to follow. They made it two steps before headlights swung around the corner. A cop car. Evan’s breath hitched. “Shit, shit, shit,” Tucker muttered, grabbing Evan’s arm and yanking him toward a dumpster.
They crouched behind it just as the car rolled past. Neither of them moved. Evan held his breath, feeling Tucker tense beside him. The patrol car’s brake lights flickered. It stopped. After a long, excruciating moment, it kept moving. They stayed still until the sound of the engine faded. Then Tucker snorted. Evan looked over, Tucker was grinning. For some reason, Evan started grinning too. The two of them made a mad dash for the pack, collected it, and went back inside, choking back laughter as they slipped up the stairs. They pulled the door closed behind them feeling like they’d just pulled off some grand heist.
Tucker shook his head. “You’re an idiot.” Evan laughed, breathless, and shrugged. “You gotta watch yourself, I won’t always be around.”
Evan nodded, but was too happy and thrilled to pay attention to the words.
That Saturday night, they heard Hank’s voice from the kitchen. “Boys, we’re picking up a pizza. Movie night. Don’t set the house on fire while we’re gone.”
Ellen peeked around the corner. “You two actually wanna sit with us for movie night this time?”
Tucker shrugged. “Maybe.” It seemed to be enough for Ellen, because she and Hank headed out a moment later, leaving them alone. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Then Tucker sighed and gestured toward the balcony. “Let’s burn one.”
One what? Cigarette? Evan followed him out. The third-floor balcony was silent except for the distant hum of the city. Tucker lit his cigarette first, then passed the lighter to Evan. Evan took his own cigarette from the pack. This time, he knew what to expect. He didn’t cough, he almost missed the feeling of having to cough. They stood there for a long while, just existing.
Finally, Tucker broke the silence. “I been feeling better lately. And you’ve got good music taste. I wanna take you to my favorite record store tomorrow. I’ll get you an album.”
Evan turned to look at him, startled. Tucker still faced forward, but there was no malice, no sarcasm. There was just Tucker. The words settled into Evan’s chest like warmth, like something real.
Shadows stopped matching their shapes, the air swam, Tucker’s mouth curled into something hungry and malicious. Evan’s breath caught. His pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding his system. “Tucker, I gotta be honest with you, man, I think I’m having an episode. I’m freaking out, you gotta–”
“Gotta get rid of you,” Tucker said, turning to face Evan. “You think I actually meant anything I said before? That I actually wanted you?” No, no, no, Evan thought. This is just another episode, you know this. “They’re my parents, mine, not yours.”
Tucker reached out and grabbed Evan by the throat. Evan choked, coughed, and panicked. He couldn’t believe Tucker was choking him, it had to be part of the delusion, but he couldn’t breathe. He reached up to his neck, clawing at the hands that were choking him. Nothing was happening. He gasped to no avail and felt the world going dark at the edges. His mind did the only thing it could, he shoved at the threat in a fit of panic. Tucker, looking confused and worried, stumbled. Evan took in a deep, gasping breath. He realized what he’d done and reached out, heart skipping a beat. But it was too late.
Tucker’s hips hit the balcony railing. His body tipped, and then–gone.
Evan stared. His hands shook. The world snapped back to normal. There was a sickening thud below, a sound like someone dropping a watermelon over the railing. It echoed off the alley walls, lifting like a ghost from between the buildings. Evan leaned over the railing, looking down, and wished he hadn’t. It looked as grisly as it sounded.
Evan froze, refusing to process what had just happened. His chest was tight, he felt like he couldn’t breathe again. His lungs weren’t working. Then, his own voice shattered the evening air as he screamed Tucker’s name.
The world shrank down to a single moment, the moment everything ended. Flashing red and blue lights cut through the dark. The distant hum of the city drowned out the warbled radio chatter of the responding officers. Evan couldn’t stop staring at the white sheet on the pavement and the red stain on the asphalt someone would need to wash into the gutters.
His ears rang, drowning out the voices around him. Someone–Ellen?–was screaming, but it sounded far away. There was so much noise, so much movement. Then Hank appeared, running toward the body. An officer grabbed him and pulled him away. Hank reached out for the white sheet, shaking, like he feared being able to touch it. His voice cracked, half prayer, half disbelief. “Tucker? Son?”
Ellen’s sob split through the night like glass shattering. Evan’s stomach rolled. Someone grabbed him. He barely registered the firm grip on his arms, the voice ordering him to turn around. Cold metal snapped around his wrists. Handcuffs. The officer was saying something, his lips moving, but Evan couldn’t make sense of the words. The world felt sideways.
Tucker’s name. They kept saying his name. “. . . say something.” Evan looked up. Hank was in front of him now, face twisted with something beyond anger, beyond grief. His voice shook. “What did you do?”
Evan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Ellen wasn’t looking at him. She was still on the ground, her hands clutching the pavement like she could hold on to Tucker through it. She wasn’t crying anymore. Just rocking, like her body didn’t know what had happened.
The officer’s grip tightened. He guided Evan toward the police car. Hank moved, his hands clamped onto Evan’s shoulders, stopping him mid-step. “What did you do?” he asked again, his voice barely above a whisper.
The officer pulled him back, firm but careful. “Sir, step back.” Hank didn’t move. Evan couldn’t answer. All he could do was watch as the last pieces of the life he almost had collapsed around him. What could he even say? “It was an accident?” An accident was breaking the plate. This was their son. Their only son.
The officer pushed him into the back of the squad car. The door slammed shut. And then the screaming, the sirens, the world outside all muffled to a dim hum. Evan stared at the metal grate between the front and back seats. He wanted to wake up. He wanted this to be another hallucination. Because if it wasn’t . . .
“Hey murderer,” someone in the car said. Evan turned. It was Tucker, smashed head and all. “It’s your fault, always will be.” Evan turned to look out the window again as the police took him away, and Tucker stayed with him the whole time.
