Chapter Text
“Alrigh’, now I really am offended. The fuck kinda brother would I be if I went an’ ratted you out? Ya callin’ me a snitch? ‘Cause I did not do three years in the pen jus’ ta be called a fuckin’ snitch. You know I was innocent, but I —“
-Merle Dixon, notorious liar, chapter 13 of thirsty
Part One: crate training
Merle sat at the table across from his lawyer—a stern, older woman by the name of Deanna—and struggled to maintain steady eye contact, as though that would earn him some kind of respect. But he knew damn well she would never respect him. He was no more than a charity case to her.
He hated that. Hated ever being seen as a charity case. It was like she pitied him.
And the pity was dreadful. Like he was some abandoned family dog at the pound. And she wasn’t even lookin’ to adopt, she was just there to feed him and try to make him presentable enough in the hopes that some sucker would take him in.
What the hell did she care, anyhow? He’d be back at the pound in less than a month once they realized he couldn’t stop pissing on the carpet and tearin’ up the couch.
But he reckoned it couldn’t be helped considering she was a public defender and he was… well, the public.
An array of folders and papers were spread out on the surface between them, and she still had the tip of her pointer finger settled on a line of print that she’d read aloud for him in order to accentuate just how dire his situation was. Her eyes were locked on his, nearly unblinking, and he couldn’t help feeling like he was a little kid again, being scolded by his mother.
Before she got lost in the drink. Before Pa beat all the spark and fire out of her.
“Unless we take this plea deal, you will be facing no less than ten years in prison,” Deanna said.
“Wha’s that mean?”
She cocked one perfectly-shaped eyebrow in question.
He reworded his question, “Y’said ‘no less.’ So… what? That means I could be facin’ more?”
Her eyebrow fell back into place and she sighed, folding her hands together atop the table. “Yes, Merle. In my honest opinion, and based on cases like this that I’ve seen before, the DA may very well go for the maximum sentence.”
His throat was suddenly tight. All the spit in his mouth dried up. He croaked out, “Twenty years?”
She nodded solemnly, lips pursed tight. “With a chance of parole after ten, if you don’t earn any disciplinary violations and they consider you to be on good behavior.”
She’d only said if once, but in Merle’s head, that was a lot of if’s.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so much as a night in jail without getting into a fight. He didn’t even wanna consider how much more difficult it would be in actual prison.
Twenty years in prison. Two decades. Even ten years was… so much more than he could imagine.
Ten years was the amount of time he’d existed without a brother. And then everything had changed: his priorities had completely switched, and whatever little bit of love had ever resided in his heart had been very suddenly refocused, his brain recalibrated to put someone else first no matter what.
If Merle spent ten or even twenty years in prison, how old would Daryl be by the time he got out? Where would he be? What would he be doing? How would he get by in the time being? What if he fell in with the wrong crowd during that time? What if he knocked somebody up? Or got hooked on some kinda bad drugs—something worse than Merle had ever done or pushed on him? What if he pissed off the wrong guy and didn’t have his big brother around to look out for him, to lighten the mood with a joke or simply jump in front of the gun? He could be killed.
Or worse… he could move on. He could make his own life and forget about Merle entirely. He could make something better of himself. Decide he was better off without his convict brother. Decide he was too good for the likes of ol’ Merle. Then what?
Then Merle would truly be alone. All alone in the big, wide world. Not a soul left to care about him.
He sat back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at the papers as an excuse to avoid Deanna’s piercing gaze.
He still couldn’t meet her eyes as he muttered, “I ain’t no fuckin’ snitch. ‘F there’s one thing I can say fer myself, it’s that I ain’t never ratted anybody out t’save my own skin. Ever.”
He finally dragged his eyes up to meet hers.
“And what did that ever earn for you?” She asked, staring back at him expectantly.
“The only shred of integrity I’ve ever been able t’claim.”
She let that statement hang between them definitively for a moment. Then she cleared her throat and said, “I understand. I really do. But I cannot emphasize this enough: if you don’t take this plea deal, you won’t see the outside of a prison cell for at least the next decade. And you care about your brother—I know how much you care about him. I know how much you both need each other. And how will you look out for him if you’re locked up? All you’ll have is visitation, and that’s only if he chooses to visit you.”
Merle sucked his teeth, his whole body tense and ringing with anxiety. His voice was low and hoarse, “An’ if I’m labeled a snitch—a rat—then they’ll beat the shit outta me in there. Won’t ever find a moment of peace. How the hell would I manage good behavior if I’m fightin’ fer my life every day?”
“I will pull every string I possess in order to assure you’re placed in a separate facility from anyone else even slightly connected to this case,” she said.
The confidence with which she spoke sparked just the slightest bit of reassurance within him. But he still wasn’t sure he could trust her. It wasn’t like he was paying her. She was making the same amount she’d be making for any other idiot facing a lighter sentence.
And why would some uptight older lady like her give a shit about where some piece of shit criminal drug addict like him ended up?
“An’ why would ya do that?” He asked flatly, staring back at her with narrowed eyes. “I know you don’t give a shit ‘bout me. Ain’t gotta lie t’me, lady. I know what yer job is, an’ I appreciate ya doin’ it t’the best of yer abilities—I do, I ain’t bein’ a smartass this time. But why the hell would you give the slightest shit whether I can be around t’look out fer my brother or not?”
Deanna frowned and, for the briefest moment, it was like her stern expression softened. He’d never seen her face soften like that. They’d had many talks like this, spent many hours together deliberating and hurling insults back and forth, and he didn’t think he’d seen the wall she had up around herself lowered so genuinely.
“Remember, I know your whole history. I’ve seen all your files, you’ve told me about your upbringing, and while I don’t agree with your approach, I am still capable of empathy, and I can understand why you did a lot of the things you’ve done. People like you are the exact reason I went into this line of work. As much as you may hate to admit it, you have shown me just how much you care about your brother,” she said. Then her voice went quieter, softer, and she added, “I have two sons myself, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” Merle challenged, arms tightening defensively across his chest. “What’re their names?”
Without missing a beat, she responded, “Spencer and Aiden.”
He humphed. Maybe she wasn’t lying.
“And they’re closer in age than you and Daryl,” she went on, “but all the same, I couldn’t imagine one being without the other. It breaks my heart to even think one of them might-might go away somewhere that the other couldn’t reach. They look out for each other in ways that my husband and I can’t. There’s a special bond between brothers that can’t be understood by anyone else. As much as I wish that Reg or myself could be everything both boys need, I know that can never be possible. And they’ll need each other more than ever after we’re gone.”
“So,” Merle cut in, “y’think you get it just ‘cause you know my story an’ got a couple’a boys of yer own?”
She shrugged, unaffected by his taunting. “I don’t think that at all. What I’m saying is that I know I’ll never truly get it. The way Daryl needs you… it’s like the way my Aiden needs Spencer, and vice versa. That is all I will ever know.”
Alright. Maybe she wasn’t quite the dumb cunt he’d wanted to think she was.
A long moment of silence hung in the empty, stark gray room. Merle swallowed hard, his head going a million miles a minute, his heart pounding in his ears. But Deanna didn’t try to break the silence or push him into talking. She simply sat there, watching him curiously, waiting patiently. He looked everywhere but at her. His mouth was still bone dry, but he didn’t think even a gallon of water could fix it.
Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “‘F I take this plea deal… if I… rat them boys out t’save my own ass… how much time y’think they’ll give me? Be straight with me, no sugarcoatin’.”
“Five years. Max. But I know the judge,” she said confidently, lowering her voice just slightly, “and we go way back. I could negotiate for three. If you stay on good behavior. Parole for two years. Then you’re free. You can go wherever you want. And take Daryl with you. So long as you keep on the straight and narrow—or at least don’t get busted again… you’ll be golden.”
He appreciated that she specified “don’t get busted again.” Maybe she really did know him. Maybe she really had paid attention throughout all these meetings. At the very least, she recognized that he’d been smart and sly enough to fly under the radar for several years.
Merle sucked his teeth, slowly raising his narrowed eyes to meet her gaze. “An’ what if they find out?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“That I snitched? Then what?”
She lowered her eyes to the papers on the table, but he knew she wasn’t really looking at them. Her shoulders slumped just slightly, but enough that he noticed. “I um, I can’t assure anything when it comes to that. I don’t like to make promises I can’t keep. I’d like to think we’ve become acquainted enough by now that you already know that.”
“Yeah,“ he said in a clipped tone, “I do. I believe ya.”
“But I will do my damnedest to try and prevent something like that. My reach only goes so far, though,” she admitted. She raised her eyes again and met his stare. “However, if all goes according to plan, they’ll be locked up longer. They won’t have access to you. And—in the best case scenario—no one will even know you were the one to divulge information.”
“Divulge information,” Merle repeated mockingly, barking out a humorless laugh. “Just a five-dollar term fer snitchin’.”
“We just need a decision, Merle. Either you take the deal or you don’t. My job is to try and steer you towards what’s in your best interest. But I can’t make a horse drink.”
Normally, he would’ve laughed. But not this time. Not today.
He chewed on his lower lip, biting down on a piece of dead skin until it peeled away to settle on the tip of his tongue. He thought about Daryl, stuck in Senoia with nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep, not a dime to his name. Damn boy didn’t even know how to sling drugs to get by, didn’t have the contacts or anything—he’d have to get down and dirty, do some kinda under-the-table work to make enough cash for a motel room or something. And he was just a kid, still in his 20s and as bright-eyed as a Dixon could be. No skills, no resumé, not even a high school diploma or a GED. Even more aimless and inexperienced than Merle was at that age. Would some kind soul take pity on him? Or would he be scorned and outcast everywhere he went, just like his big brother? The Dixon name didn’t do shit for them, and it surely wouldn’t do anything for Daryl. He was sweet. Always had been. But how far would bein’ sweet actually get him without Merle around to stand up for him, to advocate for him?
Well, Merle thought, he sure as hell survived without me while I was in the service and locked up after that. But just barely. He got beat so bad, it’s a miracle he survived. Those damn scars on his back… he couldn’t even fight off Pa. How’s he gonna fend for himself in a whole world full of men like Pa?
He needs me. He’s the only person who’s ever needed me.
How am I ever gonna come back after letting him down like this? How am I gonna get him to trust me again?
Goddammit, Merle. Why’d you ever leave in the first place, you stupid fuck? Pa coulda killed him. You knew it. An’ ya still left. You stupid, cocky son of a bitch. Who the hell did you think you were, goin’ off to enlist and actin’ like it’d make things any different? Why’d you have to go an’ fuck it all up for the both of ya?
Can’t you do anything right?
His eyes settled on the paperwork. That highlighted line that Deanna had been pointing to.
Three years wouldn’t be so bad. Right? It was better than five. A helluva lot better than ten, or twenty.
Maybe I can do one thing right. For the first time in my godforsaken life.
Finally, Merle sat up and leaned forward. Uncrossed his arms and rested his elbows on the table. He met Deanna’s patient eyes.
She was kind. A lot kinder than any other public defender he’d ever had. He really should be grateful. Should give her a genuine thanks after all this, if it worked out the way she swore it would. Hell, he’d name his firstborn after her if it really did work out the way she was promising. Reckoned that was the least he could do. He was even regretting being such a crude asshole to her the first dozen times they’d convened.
With a deep sigh, he opened his mouth to speak. Rethought it. Closed his mouth again. Pulled the paper toward him and read back over it. He felt tears pushing up from the back of his throat. He fought them back forcefully. Cleared his throat.
“Alright,” he said plainly. “I’ll do it. I’ll take the deal.”
Deanna’s eyebrows raised up damn near to her hairline. Her mouth fell open, and she was about to speak, but he jabbed a finger at her and quickly interjected:
“But if anything happens t’Daryl while I’m locked up, or to me after I get out, it’s gonna be yer head, lady. I’ll find you and them precious li’l boys ya got.”
At that, she merely smirked. She appeared to be biting back a laugh.
“Merle, my boys are grown men.”
He scoffed. “Even better. ‘Cause ya know I don’t believe in hurtin’ kids.”
Anyone else would probably be deeply offended or put-off, maybe even a little frightened. And Merle himself would normally be pissed off by someone taking his threats so lightly. But the way she chuckled and brushed him off… for some reason, it only made him respect her more.
She was one of the very few people he’d ever met who saw through him like fuckin’ glass, who knew that he was all bark and no bite.
But boy, if his bark wasn’t loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood.
Exactly two months before he was set to be released, Deanna visited Merle in prison.
He didn’t have much experience with visitors that weren’t his kin (read: Daryl), but based on what he’d seen from his fellow inmates, he was pretty sure this was a little out of the ordinary. He wasn’t gonna bitch about it, though. Sure as hell wasn’t gonna turn down the opportunity to talk to someone from the outside.
Crazy how you started missing the general population once you were locked up with a very different kind of general population.
She’d sat across from him in the visitors’ room and smiled. Like she was proud. He already thought the whole thing was a little weird, but at the same time, it was kind of… endearing?
A part of him wondered if she was just trying to assure he wouldn’t come looking for her precious baby boys once he was released.
Regardless, she seemed proud of his progress, of his clean record, and of his ability to keep the promise he’d made to her. She actually smiled.
And she said, “I’m proud of you, Merle. Something told me that I should give you the benefit of the doubt. I’m glad I listened. I hope you look in the mirror every day and remember exactly what you’re capable of. And I hope when you reunite with Daryl, it reminds you of what you did all this for.”
Merle chuckled. “Did it fer me. That’s who I do everythin’ for. What the hell you talkin’ about, lady?”
Deanne smirked knowingly and nodded. “Yeah. I know. But I’m still proud of you. Something tells me you didn’t hear that nearly enough growing up. So I’d like you to know, now, that someone is proud of you. Very proud.”
He rolled his eyes, fighting back a heat that was suddenly rushing to his cheeks. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t go gettin’ all sappy on me.”
She actually laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Seriously. You’re clean—right? Off all the pills and drugs, not even drinking.”
He shrugged. “Not like there’s an abundance of ‘em in here. Didn’t have much choice.”
“Don’t play that card with me. I know how prison works. There’s always a choice. And you made it.”
He humphed. “Yeah, I made a choice t’be the fuckin’ hermit nerd spendin’ all his time in the library. I got through all them damn Harry Potter books finally—I know they’re fer kids, but I got a kick out of ‘em. Even did another readthrough of the Bible, but it was just as borin’ as the last time I read it. Then I got started on that uh, what’s it called… Ice and Fire Song series or sum’n? Heard they been doin’ a show about it an’ everybody’s goin’ crazy for it.”
Deanna stared across the table at him with a slightly expectant expression.
Merle’s shoulders slumped just a bit and he exhaled through his nose. “Reckon y’got a point. ‘Bout the choices. But I still plan on gettin’ shitfaced the first night I get outta here—nothin’ hard, just all the booze I can get my hands on.”
She rolled her eyes and he smirked.
Then he cleared his throat, diverting his gaze toward the surface of the scratched-up table between them. His voice lowered as he said, “Dunno if y’heard, but my old man kicked the bucket last year.”
“Oh?” She said, her voice slightly higher with curiosity. Then it lowered again as she offered, “I’m… sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” he quickly said, raising his eyes to meet hers. “He was a rotten piece’a shit. Died alone an’ miserable—’s what he deserved. Some kinda stroke or somethin’. Ain’t had nobody to help him. Didn’t even find his body fer almost two weeks. Figured the drink an’ the drugs woulda killed him years ago, but he jus’ kept hangin’ on. ‘Til he didn’t.”
Deanna’s eyes narrowed, her brows furrowing with concern. She seemed to be studying him. Then she said, “So what does this mean for you?”
At that, he barked out a laugh. A triumphant sound. “Means I inherited his estate. Not that he had anythin’ to his name besides a bunch’a debt an’ one property that’s worth a damn—‘s just some shitty ol’ cabin on the outskirts of Senoia, but it’s mine now. An’ everything left inside. Gonna start all the legal shit once I get out an’ move in there ASAP.”
“The cabin where you and Daryl lived after the fire?”
He nodded. “Tha’s the one, yeah.”
“Must be a lot of memories there. For both of you.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. But now, we can make new memories. Revamp the whole place, make our own li’l bachelor pad. Who knows, maybe it’ll end up gettin’ passed down t’the next generation of Dixons.”
He laughed like it was a joke, but Deanna didn’t laugh.
Maybe she didn’t have quite the sense of humor he’d thought she had.
“I like that for you, Merle,” she said, smiling softly. “I think it’s a good thing. You’ll have somewhere of your own once you get out, a home to make. Do you think you’ll stay there with Daryl?"
He hadn’t thought about it, really. Well… a little. But not too much. Didn’t like thinking too hard on good things because they usually ended up either not happening at all or being taken away before he could really enjoy them. He glanced away, thinking. Then he said, “Yeah. Reckon I will. He’s been workin’ as a farmhand on some hoity-toity family’s property in Senoia the last year or two. Makin’ his own money an’ shit, gettin’ real close with the patriarch or whatever. Think he might like havin’ a place with me again. A real place, not some motel room or shitty trailer.”
“That sounds really nice.” She offered a genuine smile from across the table. Then she said, “I really am very sorry for your loss. I know you hated your father, and for good reasons. But he was still your father. Something like this can dredge up a lot of old feelings, and grief takes many forms. I can only imagine how your brother has been handling it.”
Merle sneered at that, his defenses rising. “Nah, don’t go doin’ that—ain’t that serious. We both hated the bastard. He ain’t nobody worth mournin’.”
“I know. But, all the same…”
At that, she hesitated. Cleared her throat. Then she reached into her purse and pulled something out: a little white business card.
“So I take it you intend on staying in Senoia and around the Atlanta area for the time being?”
He shrugged. “Can’t leave Georgia fer the next two years, so yeah, might as well.” Then he diverted his gaze, feeling almost sheepish as he added, “Gotta be honest, though… the driftin’ around thing is gettin’ a little old. Hell, I’m gettin’ a little old. Maybe this cabin comin’ inta my name is some kinda sign. I’ono.”
“Maybe it is. I like that idea,” she said. “But I only ask because I’ve got some people I’d like you to get in contact with once you’re out.”
“Ugh,” he groaned. “I ain’t goin’ to therapy. Listen, I respect ya a lot more than most, but I don’t respect nobody that much.”
“No, no, no,” she quickly explained, “I’m not proposing something as drastic as therapy. Just a couple of meetings. Have you heard of NA? Narcotics Anonymous—it’s like AA, but for recovering drug addicts.”
He sighed. “‘Course I know what all that is. Ain’t stupid.”
“I never implied you were. And maybe you don’t actually need it at all, but it would mean a lot to me if you at least gave a couple of the meetings a try,” she said gently. “Just to see what it’s all about. No commitment necessary. I was just thinking it might help you keep your priorities aligned, keep your goals in sight. Remind you of what you’re doing all this for.” She pulled a pen from the pocket of her blazer and jotted something down on the business card. “And I’m going to write my number on here, just in case you ever feel like reaching out. It’s my personal cell phone.”
He grunted. “What, you gonna be my sponsor now?”
She laughed. “Lord, no. I don’t have the time or the patience for that.” At that, he couldn’t help but laugh, too. “I just… like to keep up with former clients like you. It helps remind me of what I do all this for.” She smiled as she slid the card to the center of the table, a twinkle of pride in her eye.
Merle rolled his eyes and waved her off. But he only hesitated a second before he snatched it up, looking down at it to assure she really had written her number there. It was a Georgia area code, so maybe she wasn’t full of shit. The NA meetings were in some church in Atlanta. “Still two months ‘fore I’m outta this damn pen.”
“I know. Sixty-one days, to be exact,” she said, smiling. “But I love looking toward the future, all the endless possibilities. It’s like…” she paused, tilting her head back briefly and chuckling, “you’ll laugh at me for how cheesy I’m going to sound—”
“Maybe, but y’can still say it.”
“Well, it’s like a wide open canvas just waiting for us to paint with our own colors, especially when we’re covering the old colors with brand new, brighter ones. And I, for one, would love to see what colors you choose, Merle Dixon. You know what I mean?”
He didn’t quite know what to say to that. But he didn’t laugh. Didn’t find it cheesy at all, actually.
He was thinking of his baby brother, Daryl.
What colors could they splash across a canvas that was finally wiped clean of their father’s legacy?
Merle emerged from the big metal door of West Georgia Correctional Facility with a grin on his face and a bag in his hand. The fences around the perimeter were no longer a deterrent or a reminder of how stuck he was—nah, they were a welcome sight. ‘Cause today, he was walking right past them and back out into the wide open world.
He strode down the gravel walkway, past the COs and straight towards the truck waiting for him at the road. Daryl was leaning against the bed of the truck, leisurely smoking a cigarette. He stepped forward at the sight of Merle, giving a nod of greeting.
Merle barked out a laugh and turned his head to glance at one of the COs. “My ride’s here,” he gloated before flipping the bird and hurrying his pace to get past the gate and meet his brother.
He didn’t pause to check for the CO’s reaction. He simply rushed forward until he was wrapping both arms around his baby brother, clutching him tight and breathing in his familiar scent.
Christ, he felt so relieved. So free.
Daryl hugged him back just as tight, having already dropped his cigarette. And even though it was a little gay, when they began to pull apart, Merle grabbed Daryl by the back of his head and planted a big, fat kiss on his cheek. Then he barked out a laugh while Daryl pretended to be appalled and disgusted, pulling away and shoving his hands against Merle’s chest.
“Goddamn, it feels good t’be free, Darylina!”
“Yeah, bet it does,” Daryl grumbled, wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand. But the whole time, he was smiling. He took a step back and reached out to grab the bag from Merle’s hand—the belongings he’d entered with, which only consisted of his wallet, a few crinkled dollar bills, and a cheap flip phone that hadn’t been in service for three years. “Now what? Burger King? Waffle House?” He reached over and opened up the passenger side door, chucking the bag into the seat.
Merle laughed. “Waffle House—lord, I been havin’ wet dreams ‘bout those damn hashbrowns! Then the nearest bar. Of the titty variety, if we can find one.”
A moment later, he was sitting in the passenger seat of the truck while Daryl was in the driver’s seat, starting it up and shifting into Drive.
“It’s only Thursday, y’know,” Daryl said as he pressed down on the gas pedal and began driving them away from the prison.
Merle didn’t respond at first, taking the time to look back over his shoulder at the great, looming sight of the prison fading away in the distance. He rolled the window all the way down and stuck out his hand to give it one last middle finger. Then he turned to his brother. “So what? Means it’s the weekend. We can get lit fer the next… what, three or four days?”
Daryl scoffed. “Not me. I got work in the mornin’. An’ maybe on Saturday.”
Merle frowned. “Y’still workin’ on that farm? Thought you was gonna be done with that by now.”
“Nah. Hershel’s keepin’ me on,” Daryl said. “‘Least fer the harvest season, maybe inta next summer. Dunno ‘bout after. I was actually lookin’ into a spot at the tire shop in town. Guy that runs it said he thinks he could use me. Somethin’ ‘bout how I have a lotta ‘hands-on experience’ or some shit. Might take that on part-time an’ jus’ help out the Greenes when they need it.”
“Hershel… y’mean Ol’ Man Greene?”
“Yeah.”
“Ain’t he got a couple’a pretty daughters? Y’hooked up with one of ‘em yet, played out the whole ‘farmer’s daughter’ thing?”
“Christ, no. Y’think I got a deathwish or somethin’?”
Merle cackled. “That real mouthy one’s gotta be legal by now, right? You tellin’ me ya ain’t even tried?”
“Quit bein’ nasty, man.” Daryl scoffed. “I’d never go behind Hershel’s back like that just fer a piece of ass.”
Merle laughed him off, having spotted the pack of cigarettes resting in the cupholder. He grabbed it up and shook one out into his palm, placing it between his lips before bringing up the lighter to spark the end. He inhaled a long drag, his eyes fluttering shut and a moan damn near escaping.
He flicked the ash out the window and exhaled a thick cloud of nicotine and tar. His head was already buzzing. Being on good behavior while locked up had only meant missing out on all the real good shit, like toilet hooch and smuggled cigs. But hell, if he hadn’t been one of the best-behaved inmates in that damn place.
See, Deanna? I did it. No disciplinary violations. No fights. Kept my damn nose clean the whole time. Bet’cha never thought ol’ Merle was capable of that. Bet’cha thought wrong.
There was nothing Merle loved more than proving someone wrong, after all. Even if it was Deanna.
Dumb broad hadn’t been so dumb at the end of the day, he reckoned.
Who knew what kinda colors he could start painting his brand new canvas with.
Maybe he was a dog worth adopting in the long run. If he could just find a few people who liked the color of piss yellow and didn’t mind a few holes in their couch.
Merle had five months left on parole and he was damn proud of how well he’d maintained his clean nose since being released from prison.
He still loved getting shit-faced, loved starting fights and hustling people at the bar, and especially loved hitting on beautiful women who wouldn’t even give him the time of day. But he hadn’t touched anything harder than weed in almost five years—a feat that had seemed damn near impossible at every other point in his life before this. He’d even stayed true to his word to Deanna: he’d attended not one, not two, but three entire NA meetings. They’d been miserable occasions, full of sob stories and burnt coffee and day-old donuts in the basement of a church that was in dire need of a renovation.
When all was said and done, those meetings had only made him wanna get high a little more. The way those folks talked about the pills and the coke and the meth and the heroin and everything in between, about how their families had given up on them, how their friends had cut them off, how they’d been ostracized and made to feel subhuman for being addicts, about all the rock-bottoms they’d hit in search of their next high. So he stopped going. But when he explained as much to Deanna over a phone call shortly after, she’d been surprisingly understanding. She’d even laughed at one of his crude jokes. And she’d told him, once again, how proud she was.
He felt real fuckin’ stupid—like a little boy looking for Mommy’s approval—but he’d swelled with his own pride after that. He’d die before he’d ever admit it aloud, though.
He was working some odd jobs here and there, picking up real, legitimate work wherever he could. Thankfully, the areas around Senoia and Atlanta had no lack of a need for somebody like him. A jack of all trades, he liked to think of himself. That was where he and Daryl were alike. They could get by doing just about anything. So long as it didn’t take too much brains. They were good at hard labor. And he realized that the hard labor made him feel a little more fulfilled—it wore him out ‘til he didn’t much care to think about getting high, and it kept his hands busy enough to keep him out of trouble. He hadn’t even considered robbing someone in like… over a year. A new record for him.
He and Daryl were sharing the cabin, though he was admittedly behind on the property taxes. He figured he’d work something out. He’d come up with the money, somehow. He always found a way to make it work.
And Daryl was doin’ even better than him. Still working on that farm, somehow the golden boy in Ol’ Man Greene’s eyes. Merle reckoned the old man must’ve noticed just how sweet Daryl was, must’ve liked the way he used all his proper manners and worked his hands to the bone damn near six days a week on that farm. Or maybe he’d noticed the wicked scars on his back and taken pity on him. Merle had heard some gossip around town here and there that Hershel Greene once had a daddy a lot like theirs, so maybe he was just a real empathetic and charitable (and tough) son of a bitch.
Whatever. So long as it helped them out, that’s all Merle cared.
One of the few vices Merle still held onto though, was gambling. Goddamn, he loved it. The hit he got from a good win was almost like the first, fresh hit off a brand new bag of crystal. He could walk on clouds for a whole day after winning a couple hundred bucks. And lucky for him, one of Senoia’s biggest draws was its horsetrack.
People came from all over in the summertime to compete in the races, attend them, bet on them. Merle had gotten some real good pussy these last two summers from some broads who lived clear across the country—mostly the broads who couldn’t get into bed with the jockeys and were willing to settle for whatever else was nearby. Reckoned they got some kinda thrill outta fuckin’ some dirty redneck they’d only met that day and then never had to see again. Reckoned it was about the same for him.
And now it was the height of the season. He had the day off from his current job at the scrapyard, and a fresh new paycheck to blow. He’d been keeping up on the races, all the horses and their goofy-ass names. He put damn near his whole paycheck on a long list, picking winners based not just on their records, but also on the names he thought were funniest. Hell, might as well have some fun with it.
His personal favorite was a white horse named Bet It All On Black. Merle slapped down the money and entered his bet, knowing damn well 30/1 odds were insane, but hey, what could he say? He was feelin’ lucky. (Or maybe it was just the ten beers and three shots he’s already consumed by noon.)
Daryl was working hard under the summer sun at the Greene Farm, so Merle was all alone at the horsetrack, but that was nothing unusual. He still found ways to have fun all on his own. And boy, was he having fun as he sat in the stands and watched the horses racing, watched the dust kicked up behind their hooves, yelled at the top of his throat to “GO, GO, GO, YOU PUSSY!” He hooted and hollered and laughed, even high-fived some well-behaved Black folks that were sat next to him.
One of his horses won. He cheered. Then another. He cheered again, chugging the rest of his beer in celebration. Shortly after, yet another horse won. Holy shit, he thought, pulling out his card and keeping track, double-checking to make sure he wasn’t somehow misremembering or getting confused. Then… another win. And another. Yet another. And another after that.
Maybe it really was his lucky goddamn day.
And finally, Bet It All On Black.
That damn horse hauled ass like never before. It was neck-and-neck. Merle was gripping the railing, leaning so far forward he was about to topple head-first onto the track as he watched that pretty white stallion race like its life depended on it.
The announcer declared over the loudspeakers, “And it’s—yes, it’s BET IT ALL ON BLACK!”
Merle damn near passed out.
Holy shit. Holy fuck. Holy shit fuck!
He couldn’t get back to the betting window fast enough, gripping his precious tickets in his sweaty hands like they were made of gold. Shit, they basically were!
Oh, lord, he and Daryl were about to have it made in the fuckin’ sun. He was gonna pay off all those property taxes, have one helluva party to celebrate, and then… well, who knew, but he’d do something! Maybe buy himself a house? Let Daryl have the cabin? Shit, he could get a new car… no, three new cars! He was too late to pay to fix Daryl’s teeth like he’d always wanted, but he could do somethin’ else for him, surely. Then he’d call up Deanna and invite her and her whole family out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in Atlanta, and he’d even leave a tip. If she was proud of him before, she was gonna be over the fuckin’ moon to see how well he’d shaped up. Shit, maybe he’d buy her a new car. He knew she didn’t get paid near enough for the job she was doing.
When he reached the window after waiting in what felt like the longest line of his life, he proudly slapped his tickets down and licked his lips as he watched the woman behind the gate count out his winnings. She counted aloud, but not too loud for others to overhear. He was damn near drooling as she reached the end. He’d never seen so much money in his goddamn life. Started gettin’ light-headed once she passed 100,000. Started thinkin’ he might have an actual heart attack when she hit 200,000. (Of course, she wasn’t giving it all to him in cash—she was calculating and drawing up paperwork and arranging for checks and a possible wire transfer, a lot of bullshit to do with the IRS and taxes that had to be paid, but all Merle could see was money, money, money, thousands and thousands of dollars, and the rest of it would be in his hands within a matter of weeks.)
Shit, he should write up a will. Should get a real lawyer and get all that sorted so everything would be sure to go to Daryl if he suddenly dropped dead from elation or—more likely—overdosing on all the pussy he was about to be getting.
Green, he thought. That’s the color that’s really gonna define me and Daryl’s new canvas. The color of cold, hard cash. The color of summer pastures. The color of the grass on the other side of that damn fence we’ve never been able to see over. An’ I’m gonna splash it across every damn corner. Ain’t nobody ever gonna look down their noses at us again. Ya see me now, Pa? Hope yer rottin’ in hell while yer boys are livin’ the life you wasn’t ever able to give us.
He was still high as hell—a high that had nothing to do with drugs, but with winning a near impossible bet against all odds—when he grabbed up the paperwork and the amount of cash he’d been allowed to physically take, preparing to turn and walk away.
Then he heard a voice call out over the hustle and bustle of everyone else at the windows and walking through the area.
“Merle Dixon!”
Well now, who the hell…?
He raised his head and turned to respond, but before he could even settle his eyes on whoever had called out, a loud bang! rang out.
Someone screamed. Then another scream. A whole goddamn chorus of screams.
Suddenly, chaos erupted.
Everything was a blur of colors. People running, ducking, hiding.
On instinct, Merle reached for his waistband beneath his shirt to grab his own gun, but he only managed to wrap his fingers around the handle before the pain caught up.
And just like that, it was shooting through him, incapacitating him. He felt like he’d suddenly been frozen in ice. His hands went stiff and numb, immediately followed by his feet and legs. A sharp pain bloomed in his back and spread through his entire side, up his spine, all the way to his neck until he feared his skull might burst outward.
He couldn’t even speak. All he managed was a grunt of pain and surprise before his legs gave out beneath him and he crumpled to the ground, face-first. He was still clutching his winnings to his chest.
He took in a sharp breath and was rewarded with a mouthful of dirt. He groaned, blinking, but all he could see was red and brown.
These ain’t the colors I wanted to use at all, he thought vaguely.
The screaming was everywhere. All around him. Assaulting him from every which direction and filling his ears until he could barely hear his own gasping breaths. His heart was pounding, but he could’ve swore it was slowing.
Oh, God… was he dying?
Wait, Daryl—where’s Daryl? I gotta give him the money, the paperwork—I gotta make sure he has it so he can be okay after I’m gone.
Merle blinked rapidly, unable to feel anything but pain through his entire body. His spine felt like it had been shattered, like a fucking giant had stomped down on him with the heaviest, spikiest boot to exist. He couldn’t feel his arms or his legs. Just his back and the immense pain that pulsated and throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
Then he was looking up into several different strangers’ faces, all of them contorted in horror and concern. He heard some bits and pieces:
“...is he dead?!”
“...gotta stop the bleeding, he’s gonna die!”
“...he shot in the back? The arm? Where’s it comin’ from?!”
“Where’d he go?! Did anybody see?!”
Yet there was one face closer than all the others, and after several more blinks of his eyes, Merle realized it was a man. He had brown hair and a clean-shaven face, the brightest blue eyes he’d probably ever seen aside from his brother’s, and his hands were on Merle. He’d turned him over gently, and now he was ripping off his own button-up shirt and tying it around Merle, where the pain seemed to hurt the worst. Merle winced and cried out.
“‘S alright, yer okay, stay with me,” the man ordered, his voice somehow very authoritative yet calm and soothing at the same time. He was left wearing only a black wifebeater but already looking over at someone else, pointing at them and ordering, “Call nine-one-one! Tell ‘em Sheriff Grimes is here with a GSW and t’send an ambulance now! Tell ‘em about the shooting, get all units here! Put this whole goddamn place on lockdown!”
Oh, Jesus. A fucking cop?! And the goddamn sheriff, no less.
“Hey, hey, I’m Sheriff Rick Grimes,” the man said, looking straight into Merle’s bleary eyes now as he pressed with immense, painful force into Merle’s back. “What’s yer name?”
Merle gasped for breath, finally managing to find his voice and rasp out, “M-Merle.”
“A’right, Merle, you’ve been shot in the back. But I’m here, an’ I ain’t gonna let ya die. You just stay with me, okay? We’ve got an ambulance on the way, they’ll be here in no time. Where ya from, Merle?”
Merle groaned. “F-fuck, I—goddammit, I’m from here, man. I ain’t do nothin’, I swear it! I-I jus’ won on the horses, I’m set-set t’be off parole in f-f-five months…”
“Good, then ya got somethin’ t’live for,” Sheriff Rick Grimes said. “Y’got any family ‘round here, Merle? Y’got yer phone on ya? I can call ‘em so they meet us at the hospital.”
Merle was getting drowsy. Real drowsy. Drowsier than he’d ever been in his whole life. He glanced down and saw nothing but red. Fuck. It was his own blood. It was everywhere—seeping through his shirt, into the dirt, and staining Rick’s hands. Panic filled his veins, yet he could barely fight off the urge to close his eyes and drift away.
“M-my brother,” he managed weakly, “Daryl. Ph-phone’s in my…”
“Hey, hey! Stay with me, Merle! Where’s yer phone, man?”
“In m-my pocket.”
He felt something and realized Rick was reaching into his pocket to extract his phone. Yet at the same time, he was grabbing something else that was still half-slid out of Merle’s waistband. Then he was leaning down close to Merle’s ear and saying, much quieter, “Said yer on parole—I’mma take this gun an’ pretend you ain’t ever had it, Merle. Then I’m gonna call yer brother.”
“Th-thanks, Officer Friendly,” Merle croaked out. He blinked rapidly, struggling like hell to keep himself awake. “Think I’mma pass out, man. I—don’t let ‘em take m-my… winnings… me an’ Daryl… w-we need it, our pa, he wasn’t…”
He couldn’t even feel his hands, but he knew damn well they were still clutching his precious money and paperwork close to his chest. Shit, it was all probably soaked in his own blood.
Ha, he thought, blood money. Literally.
He huffed out a chuckle at his own private joke, but it was a mistake. Red spittle flew from his mouth and across Rick’s face. “Oh—shit. That… can’t be good.”
Rick’s eyes were wide and his face was pale, yet he still managed something that resembled a half-smile. “Jesus, man, jus’ stay awake for me, alrigh’? Nobody’s takin’ yer winnings, you an’ yer brother’ll be jus’ fine. Quit try’na talk, the ambulance is…”
His voice was sounding further and further away until it faded out completely. It sounded like he was trying to speak underwater. Yet Merle could’ve swore he heard sirens in the distance. Or was it just wishful thinking?
He didn’t know if he said it out loud or if it was just in his head, but he heard his own voice very faintly: “I don’t wanna die yet. I-I got shit t’do, people to-to prove wrong. Please d-don’t lemme die. Please…”
As he shut his eyes, he thought of the blue-and-red flashing lights.
Better colors than red and brown, he told himself. Still not as good as green, though.
And then everything was black.
A week after Merle woke up in the hospital, Deanna came to visit.
She looked just the same as that last day she’d visited him in prison, but now he felt much more pathetic. A lot less proud. He found it difficult to meet her eyes.
Even though he felt like he should be angry at her. Should be downright fuckin’ pissed. Exactly the thing that she’d promised wouldn’t happen… had happened.
Then again, he knew she’d only promised he wouldn’t be hurt in prison. She’d never made any promises about afterwards. Not really. Besides, what was she supposed to do? Get him a personal security detail or some shit?
Yet she entered the room and met Daryl’s gaze with an apologetic sort of look about her. Daryl glanced over at Merle, as though he were checking that it really was okay for her to be there. Merle simply gave a light nod of his head, and Daryl understood. He offered Deanna a brief grunt of acknowledgement before heading straight for the door and leaving Merle alone with her.
As soon as the door fell shut, she sat down in the chair beside his bed and folded her hands in her lap. And the look on her face was enough to open up a pit of despair within Merle’s gut—she felt guilty. He could see it in the set of her shoulders, in the deep lines of her face, in the way she struggled to meet his eyes.
They sat in silence for a very long moment. The TV mounted on the wall in the corner was on mute, still playing a rerun of The Office. The only sounds filling the room came from the steady beeps of all the machines around him, from the near-silent drip-drip-drip of the IV bag at his bedside that fed into the tube in his hand.
Once it became equally unbearable for them both, she broke the silence: “Merle, I—”
“Thanks fer comin’,” he said, stopping her from whatever dumbass apology she was about to attempt.
She raised her eyes and met his gaze with trepidation and a deep frown that accentuated all the lines around her mouth. She huffed out a breath that resembled amusement or disbelief. “I would’ve visited sooner, but I wanted to wait and make sure you were in the right state to see me.”
“Don’t matter,” he croaked out, his throat still hoarse. “Coulda showed up five years from now. It’d still mean the same.”
She smiled weakly. “I uh, I have to admit, it was a surprise when I got the call. I didn’t think you’d ever want me to see you in this state. Or at all. I suppose I thought you wanted to put all of that behind you. And I couldn’t blame you. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
He cleared his throat before reaching over for his paper cup of water, sipping it gently through the straw and wetting his lips. Then he said, “Yeah, well… y’did a lot fer me. Know I ain’t reached out in a while, an’ I know I’m an asshole, but I ain’t such an asshole that I’d deny givin’ somebody credit where credit’s due. Y’went outta yer way fer me. Fer ol’ Merle. Ain’t many people can say that. Ain’t many people wanna say that.”
She nodded. “I’m still proud. Deeply. Maybe even more so, now. Yet I can’t help feeling… a bit responsible.”
“Why’s that? ‘S it you that sent that asshole after me?” He tried to huff out a chuckle, but it only turned into a coughing fit, which sent the pain shooting through his back anew. He took a few moments to recover, and he caught the look of concern she had while watching him struggle. “Ain’t as bad as it sounds, I swear,” he assured. “Not like I’m dyin’ or nothin’.”
“No, I know,” she said. A meek smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve heard about your resilience. Your brother said something along the lines of, ‘only Merle can kill Merle.’ I’m starting to think he’s right.”
Merle scoffed. “Yeah. Officer Friendly said sum’n like that, too. But his version was ‘bout Dixons bein’ as stubborn as weeds.”
“That’s quite a declaration of resilience. Especially from someone who’s just met you.”
“Yeah. Met me, pro’lly saved my life. God help me, reckon I’ll be owin’ that fuckin’ pig fer the rest’a my days.”
She chuckled softly. “He’s not the worst person to have on your side.”
He shrugged.
“Your brother seems nice, by the way. We spoke a bit out in the hall before he allowed me in here,” she said. “I’m glad I finally got to meet him. Though I wish it had been under better circumstances.”
“Yeah, he’s always been the sweet one. Ain’t nothin’ like me, but ‘m sure y’figured that out pretty quick.”
There was a beat of silence. Then she heaved a deep sigh and her voice grew more heavy. “Merle, I wanted to… apologize. For being unable to keep all of the promises I made. And before you try to argue, just—I honestly never thought this would happen. I never thought, for even a second, that they would send someone after you like that. If I’d had any idea, I would’ve—”
“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” Merle interrupted, effectively shutting her mouth with his indifference. “Where’s all this gettin’ us?”
She furrowed her brow, staring back at him and opening her mouth like she wanted to say something.
But instead, he continued, “‘Member what you said that first meeting we had? When I tried t’lie an’ say I was innocent, tried t’backtrack an’ come up with all them ‘what if’s that woulda kept my ass outta prison or from ever gettin’ caught in the first place? Y’said it was all fuckin’ pointless, an’ I was only diggin’ up graves fer the taste of bones. Like a bad dog.”
She swallowed hard. “Yes. I remember.”
“Well, hate t’say it, but you was right. Ain’t no point in all that. Think I wanna be a good dog. ‘Sides… I done decided I ain’t much like the taste’a bones. Rather have the meat. Rather dig graves of my own or—hell, I’ono, sum’n like that. I’ve never been too good with words. ‘M not eloquent like you.”
“You’re not a dog, Merle. And I never should’ve compared you to one, even in passing. I was simply trying to connect with you, but I went about it incorrectly. I apologize for that. But it doesn’t make me feel any less… at fault. For what transpired,” she admitted. “I feel partially to blame. I convinced you to take the deal, and I never thought they would have a reach so far as to enact revenge on you in your own hometown. When you’re so close to being done with all of this, to being off parole and free of the system entirely. You’ve done all the work—the hardest work—and you’ve done it well, done it right. You’ve completely redeemed yourself, as far as I can tell. And all you got for it was… a bullet in your back.”
Merle groaned. “You tryin’ t’make me feel bad for myself? Or is this some kinda therapy bullshit yer try’na trick me into?”
She chuckled sadly. “No, nothing like that. I just… I feel like this was—”
“Jus’ stop, woman,” he interrupted, resituating in his bed and nestling the back of his head further into the stiff pillow behind him. “I been shot before, ya know. Nothin’ as bad as this, but I’m still alive. It was a li’l touch-an’-go fer a bit, sure, but oh well. Ain’t losin’ my legs or nothin’. An’ as long as my dick still works, ya won’t hear me bitchin’.”
“A man of simple pleasures,” she remarked. “I can respect that. But, um… I did hear they caught the guy. Your new sheriff friend was on his way out when I was coming in. He said something about apprehending the suspect and identifying him. How does that make you feel?”
“I’ono. Can’t say I’ve given that fucker much thought.”
She frowned, her brows knitting together. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. Believe it or not… ol’ Merle’s done turned over a new leaf.” He huffed out a breath. “Reckon yer partially t’blame fer that. S’pose I owe ya some kinda nice dinner or somethin’ with my newfound wealth. Maybe a new car. I know they don’t pay ya near what yer worth fer doin’ what ya do.”
“Merle, please.” She rolled her eyes and relaxed in her seat, like she was returning to the comfortability they’d had back when she was talking to him from across scuffed gray tables. “You don’t owe me anything. All I’ve wanted for you was… better. And seeing you now, even like this… well, I think even this is an improvement from how I first met you.”
“‘Til they cut off my morphine supply an’ I get outta here to start lookin’ fer my next fix.”
Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but he laughed before she could voice her shock.
“Relax, lady. I’s jus’ kiddin’. I’mma still stay clean after this. Hell, I’mma have so much money, won’t even need t’think about drugs.”
She rolled her eyes and feigned exasperation, but he noticed her visible sigh of relief. “I still remember that phone call you gave me after your NA meetings. And I have to be honest… just knowing you went told me everything I needed to know.”
“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
“Well, it told me you were committed. Really and truly. And that you are a man of your word. Not to mention, you held onto the card I gave you. You still had my phone number. So you had intention and motivation.” She pressed her mouth into a flat line, gazing at him thoughtfully. “At the end of the day, I can push and push and urge people in the right direction, but if they don’t have the motivation, the intention, it means nothing. You… you have the intention. You always have. You just needed the right push from the right people.”
“The right people bein’ you?”
“No. Your brother. The memory of your father and the thought of defying him. And, most importantly, yourself.”
Merle grunted, trying his damnedest to sound and appear indifferent. But his throat was burning with the tears he was desperately pushing back.
He couldn’t explain why, but he was suddenly missing his ma for the first time in 20 years.
If only you could see me now, he thought. What I turned out to be. May not have turned out as sweet an’ kind as yer baby Daryl, but I came out somethin’. Somethin’ worth havin’. Somethin’ that ain’t so bad. If you’d put down the bottle long enough, you mighta seen it yourself. The potential. The intention.
He’d thought he could enlist and not only get away from his demon of a father, but also make his mama proud whenever she was sober enough to feel such a thing. He’d been wrong, of course. Damn him for trying. But hell, if he hadn’t still tried.
When he was able to push back his poorly-disguised need to cry with another sip of water through a straw and compose himself, Merle met Deanna’s eyes and sucked his teeth. She seemed to stiffen at the appearance, yet she didn’t look away.
“You ‘member what y’said that last day you came t’visit? ‘Fore I got outta the pen.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”
“The cheesy shit about lookin’ towards the future, ‘bout havin’ a new canvas an’ paintin’ it with whatever colors I wanted.”
A soft smile appeared on her face. “Ah. Yes, of course.”
“Well, I was…” he hesitated, his eyes darting away sheepishly, “I was thinkin’ ‘bout that. When I got shot. No bullshit, ‘s the last thing I ‘member thinkin’ ‘fore I woke up after surgery.”
When he managed to drag his eyes back up to meet hers, he found a look that bordered on astonishment etched across her face. She didn’t say it, but he could already hear the what? in her voice. Her eyes had gone a little wide.
“I was thinkin’ ‘bout Daryl. An’ the money. An’ then, all the colors,” he went on, his voice much quieter, cracked and somewhat broken as he recalled those moments he hadn’t yet spoken aloud. “‘Bout the colors I wanted me an’ Daryl t’paint our canvas with. I saw—I saw brown an’ red, ‘cause it’s all I saw when I was layin’ there, bleeding out. An’ I didn’t want that. Not at all. I wanted green, like money an’ fresh grass, an’ I wanted blue, like the sky, and-and red like our blood, but not like the blood comin’ outta me. Like the blood we share. I wanted purple. I wanted orange. I wanted yellow.”
Deanna’s mouth was open, yet no words came out. She stared at him like… hell, like he was some kinda fascinating fuckin’ creature. Like she was at the aquarium and he was the octopus behind the glass, showing her all the different colors he could turn.
Finally, she blinked and found her voice, and she asked, “Yellow?”
Merle huffed out a breath, half a chuckle and half a scoff. “Like piss. ‘Cause what’ve I ever done but piss all over everythin’ good.”
She had tears in her eyes—there was no mistaking it. He saw them. She tried to blink them away, tried to play it real cool and casual and wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand like the sterile air of the ICU was just irritating her contacts or something. But he knew better. Especially when she sniffled.
Then she straightened up in her chair and looked him straight in the eyes, and she said, “The yellow isn’t for piss, Merle. It’s for sunlight. The dawning of a new day.”
He scoffed. “A new day dawns purple an’ orange an’ some real pretty shades of pink. Trust me, I know. I spent a lotta nights up ‘til dawn, I’ve seen the sunrise enough t’know what color it is.”
Deanna chuckled softly. “Did you stay up long enough to watch it turn yellow? Because eventually, it does. And then it gets so yellow that it’s gold.”
Well, that was certainly a different way of looking at it.