Breakdown by Katherine Amt Hanna

brother’s expression before the hard wall went up.
    “I always wanted to fix it with you,” Chris said. “You know I tried. Even now, you’re still an ass.” He shifted his gaze to Fiona, frozen on the settee. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then turned and left the room. Jon shot an angry look into the corner, but Brian had turned his back on the room. Jon followed Chris upstairs without a word.
    Chris sat down on the bed, hunched over. Jon closed the door and leaned against it.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Chris said. “It’s not your fault.”
    “No, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. About you letting what happened—”
    “I know,” Chris interrupted. “It’s okay.”
    “What can I do?”
    “Nothing,” Chris said, shaking his head. “It’ll either work out or it won’t.”
    Jon stood aching by the door, wanting to help, wanting to do something to make things right. “It has to work out,” he said. “This can’t go on.” He had the ghastly thought that Brian would make things so uncomfortable that Chris would leave, go back to the farm he’d been working on or somewhere else. It must have showed on his face.
    Chris waved a hand as if to dismiss Brian. “I thought that might happen, y’know. Pauline said it might. It’s too unexpected. He isn’t ready to deal with it.”
    “Who’s Pauline?”
    “George’s sister, in Breton. She’s a psychologist. Well, she was, anyway, before. We talked about it.”
    “What else did she say?”
    Chris turned his head away then and crossed his arms. “She said he’ll get over it.”
    “Are you over it?”
    Chris met Jon’s eyes, his face neutral. “Yes. Don’t worry, he’s not going to chase me off. I’ve lost too much. I’m not going to walk out on you again.”
    Jon swallowed, almost ashamed that he’d been so transparent.
    From downstairs came the sound of muffled voices and the slam of the kitchen door.
    “Fiona will set him straight,” Jon said.
    Chris got a little smile at that. He nodded. “Yes, I expect she will.”
    “Tell me more about Breton.”
    “Um, tomorrow? I’m knackered.”
    Jon shuffled his feet, reached for the doorknob, decided to let it go. “Of course, sure. Good night, then.”
    “Good night, Jon.”
    As he readied himself for bed, Jon realized that Chris’s story of how he got to Hurleigh raised more questions than it answered. He wondered about London, Portsmouth, and Breton. What about Breton made it so easy for Chris to stay there instead of moving on to find his family? Jon decided to ask Chris in the morning.

CHAPTER 6
     
    October 2005—Breton, England
     
    C hris trudged along the road, keeping by habit toward the verge, though it was unlikely he would have to step aside for any vehicle. He’d passed the church and rectory, saw no other houses, and was thinking that Cooper’s directions and estimate of the distance up from the crossroads where the lorry had dropped him had been optimistic.
    The grade got steeper. He had to slow down. His ribs hurt. He paused to cough hard, bent over with his hands on his knees, grimacing at the hammerblow pain in his chest. He straightened carefully, got his breath back, and walked on.
    He wondered if he looked presentable enough. He had taken time to have a thorough wash and careful shave in the cold dormitory bathroom at the Distribution Center that morning, but the face that looked back at him from the mirror was obviously not fully recovered from illness. The dark circles under his eyes and gaunt appearance had startled him.
    Another curve and he finally saw it, just ahead on the left: a stone house covered in climbing vines with a small roof over the front door, just as Cooper had described it. A brick path led down from the door to an iron gate in the waist-high stone wall bordering the road.
    Chris walked along the wall until he reached the gate. He found Cooper’s letter in his pocket, then fished out his blood-test card and held it