Freedom

      Neil felt his hands burning as they touched the bones still hot from the fire. From his fingers to his chin, Neil was covered in soot, but it suited his current appearance: he looked battered, his face was covered in dried blood that had recently oozed from the wounds on his cheeks; his hair was covered in dust and dirt, and his clothes were in such a deplorable state that they threatened to fall off his body at the slightest gust of wind.       This escape was the last. His father caught up with them in Seattle and, as it turned out, shot his mother. She kept silent until the last, preferring to scare Neil with promises than to go to the hospital. Now she was dead, and Neil looked at the burning car, sitting in a pile of junk that he pulled out of this old junk before setting it on fire, and inhaling the sharp smell of smoke and burning.       Neil hardly digs the sand carefully with his nails, not even paying attention to the pain in his mangled fingers, perhaps he scraped them on the asphalt when he fell while running? The hole was deep enough for Neil to casually push the backpack with bones and ashes into it, and then cover it with sand again.       Neil did not know how much time had passed since he buried his mother, but he was sure it was a long time, because the sun had already risen, and the guy himself was shivering with cold; the car had already cooled down and loomed in the periphery of his vision as a huge black spot. His fingers were numb, and his back was stiff from sitting in one place for so long.       Neil hadn't cried for a long time, probably five years, but not today. Today, salty tears were streaming down his cheeks, making the wounds on his face sting. His soul felt so light that Neil smiled, for the first time in a long time and so sincerely, as he probably never smiled.       He dug his fingers into the sand and sighed convulsively. His voice was hoarse from several hours of silence, but this did not stop Neil from whispering huskily:       — Freedom... — everyone has a right to it, but, Lord, how much he had to endure for this small, happy moment, which, with all his crippled soul, he hoped would last long enough before he died.