Chapter 1

After the Beginning 

THE BOOK OF JOB II
1: 1 God saw all that he made, and behold, it was shit. 

Fifty-five passengers crowd outside a placid lit Southwest Airline air-port office. The nearby humming of a baggage claim belt taunts them. Bags pass in the blurry distance, picked up by once other passengers, other fliers. Tempers are rising. The fifty-five passengers bump and grumble. They curse and sneer. 

Southwest lost their baggage mid-flight. 

“What do fucking you mean ‘lost’?” a woman screams, yanking her child closer. The crowd agrees, though some of the Christian-laden south recoil at the cussing. 

A worker steps from the office doorway, his long brown hair illuminated like a halo in the fluorescent office glow. “The bags are gone. Lost. While we were in the air, they seem to have fallen off the plane.” 

“They what?” an older man shouts. 

“How is that even possible?” a younger woman says. 

“You lost my guitar!” a man in a freshly crimped cowboy hat screams. 

The worker lifts his hands, his pale blue eyes striking through the doorway shadow. The crowd silences. “It’s a freak accident,” the worker says. “Somehow the lower door fell open. We’re working as hard as we can to figure it out.” 

The crowd loses their shit. 

I stand at the back of the crowd, staring at the ceiling. My eyelids weigh me down—a calling card of twelve-years of Los Angeles living, plus the three years of bone-dry sobriety. My hair is frazzled from another awkward, plane ride sleep, as my fingers fidget along the hem of my baggy, Better Oblivion Center t-shirt. There’s nothing like wearing a favorite band’s merch, especially when no one else knows them. Somehow, it stems the tide of dread. 

It’s my first day home in three years.

My first day home since— 

“Jobe Jackson?” 

I freeze. 

The southwest worker stares at me, pulling out an extra large, beat up, dark blue luggage case from behind the doorway. “Is there a Jobe Jackson here?” he says.

I raise a shaky, too sober hand. “I’m Jobe Jackson.” 

The crowd turns and stares. 

The worker smiles. “We seem to have found your bag.” 

The crowd screams anew. 

I push to the front of the line, shouldering past cursing mothers, screaming fathers, and those in-between, readjusting my backpack’s weight.

As I grab my luggage, the worker leans in. He smiles. “This is a blessing.” 

I smile awkwardly, knowing I should’ve seen the sentiment coming. Everyone’s a fucking Christian in the south. “Uh, right.” 

I grab my bag and turn to leave. Soon enough, the crowd fades behind me. Luggage wheels clack on the pavement as I pass through double doors into the muggy, Tennessee spring air. The perfect time for a wedding, and the exact reason I’m finally back. 

Dread trickles down my spine. Beyond the muggy calling-card weather of tornado season, Tennessee holds worse horrors for me. I haven’t been home in three years. It’s the longest stretch since I left. Three years excommunicated. Three years after the final fight.

A memory attacks me.

A lamp-lit room, filled with ornate dressers and piled laundry basket. Mom’s bedroom. She sits, weeping on the edge of her bed. 

She looks up at me and whispers.

“You’ve ruined my life.”

A car horn beeps in the distance, pulling me back to the sweaty smells of the airport loading zone. For not the first time that day, the words reverberate through me. I steel myself for war. 

It’s time to see my mom.