Chapter 2: The Day I Begged Him

I’ll never forget that day, kneeling in front of Tommy’s house, begging. "For the sake of all our years together, I’m begging you, man."

My knees dug into the gravel, palms sweating. The porch light flickered overhead, moths swirling in the glow. I looked up at Tommy, my voice cracking. Pride swallowed whole. Sometimes, you have to beg—even if it breaks you.

Tommy squinted at me, his mouth curling into a cold sneer. "Eddie, who do you think you are calling me your brother? You ain’t even worth our dog."

His words hit like a slap. I saw something hard in his eyes—something I’d never noticed before. It stung, deeper than I wanted to admit. The porch creaked as he shifted his weight. The screen door banged behind him.

I watched as Tommy tossed the pork ribs I’d bought with my last forty bucks to his dog. That was the moment I realized—the guy in front of me wasn’t the brother I’d looked out for since we were kids.

The dog wagged its tail, gnawing on the bones, while I stood there empty-handed. The smell of barbecue hung in the air, bitter as regret. I turned away, heart pounding, knowing something had changed for good.

Tommy and I came from working-class families. I was the one who brought him out of our little Ohio town. We grew up side by side. I always treated him like blood—closer than my own brother.

Our houses sat shoulder to shoulder on Maple Street, paint peeling, yards wild with dandelions. We shared everything—hand-me-down bikes, secret hideouts, even the same scraped knees. Folks in town used to joke we were twins born to different mothers.

I was always the big kid, the leader of the pack. Back then, Tommy was small, sickly, barely spoke. Since our folks were next-door neighbors, the old folks always told me to keep an eye on him, so I did. When I was around, nobody messed with Tommy. I took that job seriously.

I’d puff up my chest, daring anyone to mess with the quiet kid. We’d sneak out to the creek, pockets full of marbles and dreams, and I’d make sure he got the biggest share of whatever we found. Loyalty came easy back then.

When the adults were gone, I’d take Tommy out for burgers or baseball, anywhere I could.

We’d split a basket of fries at the Dairy Freeze, or toss a beat-up ball around the empty lot behind the hardware store. Sometimes, we’d catch a minor league game if we could scrounge up the cash. Those afternoons felt endless, the kind you don’t realize are golden until they’re gone.

Neither of us was any good at school. We hung around town until we turned eighteen. I was the first to leave—got my CDL, started long-haul trucking. Found a good mentor, trained for two years. Once I could drive on my own, I brought Tommy out too.

School was a blur of missed assignments and detentions. We both knew we weren’t cut out for college, so when I got the chance to learn trucking, I jumped. The open road called to me, and after I got my bearings, I couldn’t leave Tommy behind. He needed someone to show him the ropes. That someone was me.

Back then, driving a big rig was rough—dangerous, exhausting. But the money came quick. I leaned on my size and guts. As soon as I finished my apprenticeship, I was the one leading the way.

There were nights when the engine rattled your bones and the loneliness crept in. But the pay was good, and I learned to trust my instincts. Folks respected a driver who could handle himself, and I earned that respect mile by mile.

In the trucking world, leading the way on a new route was a big deal. When a new stretch opened up, someone had to go first, clear the way, make sure it was safe—physically and, well, otherwise. Nobody wanted to be first, not with all the stories of accidents and weird things happening at night. But the guy who led the way got a fat bonus and a stack of cash. I made good money that way. It was risky, but worth it.

It wasn’t just about guts—it was about luck, too. Some old-timers swore certain highways were cursed, that strange things happened to the first truck through after a bad wreck. Still, I took the risk. The extra money paid the bills, and I started to build a name for myself.

When I brought Tommy along, he was always jumpy, so I watched out for him. I even split my lead bonuses with him. I never let him go first alone, scared he’d get in trouble. I told him more than once, since I brought him out of our town, I’d get him back safe. It was a promise I intended to keep.

He’d flinch at every bump in the road, hands shaking on the wheel. I made sure he had backup—never let him run solo on a bad stretch. The money didn’t matter as much as keeping him out of trouble. It was a promise I made to myself, and to his mom.