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Sam is Dead
Hannah Kirkell
Copyright © 2020 Hannah M. Kirkell
All rights reserved
First Edition
Fulton Books, Inc.
Meadville, PA
Published by Fulton Books 2020
This is a work of fiction.
Names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or establishments is solely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-64654-259-8 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-64654-260-4 (digital)
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
For Amanda Neubauer and Sam
Chapter One
Sam has been dead for two days. And I know this, I do, but I can’t stop myself from expecting to see him every time someone calls my name.
I try to keep my memories of Sam separated into categories of happy and painful. Most days, I try to remember the Sam I used to know, but sometimes, I can’t stop myself from dwelling on his last few months.
No one liked Sam, and it was for good reason. Sam was the man that didn’t look to see if he should hold the door when leaving the coffee shop we used to meet at. Sam was usually quite difficult to get along with—even for me.
But I think the main reason that no one liked Sam was that Sam was a murderer.
God, just thinking that makes me remember how I met Sam.
*****
This story begins a little under three years ago, when I was 14. It was the second week of my freshman year, and I was already entertaining ideas of dropping out of high school and joining the traveling circus. As I sadly trudged to the only place that sold half-decent coffee in my agonizingly small town, I remember thinking about how heavy my homework load was. After pulling a math worksheet and a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird out of my backpack, I let myself wallow in my “heavy homework load” for a few moments before starting on the math worksheet. I was halfway through the third problem when I heard some sort of disturbance behind me.
“Hey! Come on, man!” a younger man yells at a middle-aged man that had just entered the shop. “I was right behind you! Would it have killed you to hold the door for one second?”
The middle-aged man, a shorter guy with short salt-and-pepper hair and an air of arrogance, turned on the young man with a sneer. When the younger guy saw the middle-aged man’s face, he panicked and backed away hurriedly.
The middle-aged man’s shoulders seemed to slump for a second before he turned back toward the counter.
I remember joyfully reveling in that the scene in front of me was more interesting than geometry and keeping my eyes locked on the middle-aged man’s retreating back.
He stopped at the counter.
“Afternoon.” His voice was curt and devoid of any emotion.
The barista, a younger girl, probably a college student, managed a weak smile at him.
“Afternoon, Sam. The usual?”
The
