Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 79
Mountain Lessons

Friday. 4:45 AM.

"Noam. Time to get up."

Ash pulled the pillow over his head. "Go away."

"We're leaving in fifteen minutes. Get dressed."

"I don't want to—"

The pillow was yanked away. Dad stood over him, already dressed in hiking gear.

"This isn't a negotiation. Get up. Get dressed. Bathroom. Car. Fifteen minutes."

Dad left before Ash could argue.

Ash lay there for another thirty seconds, considering refusing. But he knew how that would end. Dad would physically dress him if necessary. Had done it before when he was younger and refused to get ready for school.

He dragged himself out of bed. Put on the clothes Mom had laid out—hiking pants, moisture-wicking shirt, fleece jacket. Stumbled to the bathroom. Splashed water on his face.

His reflection looked as angry as he felt. Bruised jaw fading to yellow. Dark circles under his eyes from not sleeping well.

Downstairs, Uncle Nate was already there. Tall, broad, buzz cut still military-short despite being on leave. He was loading gear into Dad's SUV with practiced efficiency.

"Morning, Noam," he said, not looking up from what he was doing.

Ash grunted.

"Not a morning person, huh?" Nate continued, seemingly unbothered by Ash's hostility. "Your dad was the same at your age. Had to drag him out of bed for early morning training."

"Patrick wasn't much of a runner until high school," Nate told Dad as he emerged with the cooler. "Remember that time Dad made us run laps at 5 AM because we'd stayed up too late?"

"Don't remind me," Dad said, but he was smiling. "You lapped me three times."

"You were twelve. I was sixteen. Of course I lapped you."

They continued talking—easy conversation between brothers who'd grown up together, shared history Ash wasn't part of.

Ash slumped into the backseat, closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep on the drive.

"Here." Mom appeared with a travel mug and a granola bar. "Hot chocolate, extra marshmallows. And eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway. You'll need energy for hiking." She leaned in, kissed his forehead despite his attempt to pull away. "Be good. Listen to your dad and uncle."

"Whatever."

Mom's expression tightened, but she didn't respond. Just stepped back as Dad started the engine.

The first hour, Ash dozed fitfully in the backseat while Dad and Nate talked up front. Their voices washed over him—discussing the trail, the weather, something about Nate's latest deployment.

"—still having anger issues?" Nate's voice, pitched low but Ash was awake enough to hear.

"Getting worse," Dad replied quietly. "The fight this week was bad. He went after another kid hard enough to bloody his nose."

"And therapy?"

"Started yesterday. Dr. Reeves thinks the testosterone is making everything harder. Puberty hitting an adult mind that remembers being past all this."

"That's got to be a mindfuck."

"Language," Dad said automatically, then: "But yes. It is."

"You sure about this trip? If he's that volatile—"

"He needs this. Needs physical outlet, needs to get away from school stress, needs..." Dad paused. "Needs to learn that his anger has limits. That he can't just explode at everyone."

"And you think a hiking trip will teach him that?"

"I think you and I can teach him that."

Ash kept his breathing steady, pretending to still be asleep. So this was their plan. Teach him a lesson about anger management. Great.

By the time they reached the trailhead, the sun was up but still low, casting long shadows through the trees. The parking area was empty—too early for most hikers.

"Grab your pack," Dad said, opening the trunk.

Ash's backpack was there—the one he'd reluctantly packed. It felt heavier than he remembered.

"Water bottles full?" Nate asked, checking his own pack with military precision. "Snacks accessible? First aid kit?"

"Yes, drill sergeant," Dad said, but he was smiling.

"Just making sure. These trails can be rough if you're not prepared."

They set off, Dad leading, Ash in the middle, Nate bringing up the rear. The trail started easy enough—wide path through pine forest, morning birds singing, air cool and crisp.

For the first mile, Ash could almost forget he was angry. The rhythm of walking, the fresh air, the absence of school and Brett and disappointed teachers—it was actually kind of peaceful.

Then the trail started climbing.

"How much further?" Ash asked after the second mile, breathing harder than he wanted to admit.

"We're doing eight miles today," Dad said without turning around. "This is mile two and a half."

"Eight miles?"

"To the campsite," Nate added from behind. "Then five miles tomorrow to the peak, five back. Six miles out on Sunday."

"That's twenty-four miles!"

"Twenty-four miles over three days," Dad said calmly. "You can handle it."

"I don't want to handle it. I want to go home."

"Not an option."

"You can't just—"

"Actually, we can." Nate's voice was matter-of-fact. "You're eleven. We're your guardians for the weekend. You go where we go."

Ash stopped walking. "I'm not really eleven."

"Your body is," Nate said, stopping too. "Your cardiovascular system is eleven. Your muscles are eleven. Your endurance is eleven. So yeah, for the purposes of this hike, you're eleven."

"Fuck you."

The words came out before Ash could stop them.

Silence.

Dad turned around slowly. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

"Apologize. Now."

"No."

Dad and Nate exchanged glances.

"Fine," Dad said. "You can walk in silence then. Not another word until you're ready to apologize."

"You can't—"

"Silent. Or we add miles."

Ash opened his mouth to argue, saw Dad's expression, closed it.

They kept hiking.

The trail got steeper. Ash's legs burned. His pack felt heavier with each step. Sweat soaked through his shirt despite the cool morning air.

Dad and Nate talked over his head—about the trail, about Nate's work, about baseball season starting soon. Like Ash wasn't even there.

"Think he'll make all-stars again?" Nate asked.

"If he can control his temper," Dad replied. "Coach Williams won't tolerate fighting."

"Shame. He's got talent."

"Talent's not enough if you can't control yourself."

They were doing it deliberately. Talking about him like he was invisible, like his opinions didn't matter.

By mile five, Ash was furious again. His legs hurt, his back hurt, he was sweaty and tired and they were still treating him like a problem to be managed rather than a person.

"I need water," he said.

"I thought we were walking in silence," Dad said mildly.

"I need water."

"Then you should have brought your water bottle in an accessible pocket like Uncle Nate suggested."

"Just let me—"

"Silent. Or apologize."

Ash yanked his pack off, dug out his water bottle, drank angrily. Everything about this was bullshit. The hike, the silence rule, the way they were handling him like some kind of unruly recruit.

They reached the campsite at 2 PM. A cleared area near a creek, fire ring already set up from previous campers.

"We'll set up here," Nate said, dropping his pack. "Noam, help me with the tent."

"I don't want to—"

"Wasn't a request."

Ash stood there, fists clenched. Everything in him wanted to refuse. To fight. To make them see he wasn't just some kid they could order around.

"Noam," Dad's voice carried a warning. "Help your uncle."

"Make me."

Another silence. This one heavier.

Nate straightened up from where he'd been unpacking the tent. "You want to run that by me again?"

"I said make me." Ash stepped closer to Nate, had to crane his neck to look up at him. "You can't just force me to do things."

"Actually," Nate said calmly, "I can. You're eleven. I'm sixty-five. You weigh ninety pounds soaking wet. I've got a hundred and twenty pounds and fifty-four years of experience on you. So yes, I can make you."

"You wouldn't—"

"Try me."

Something in Nate's expression—calm, certain, completely unimpressed by Ash's anger—made Ash even madder.

He shoved Nate.

Or tried to. His hands hit Nate's solid chest and Nate didn't even sway. Like shoving a tree.

"That's strike one," Nate said quietly.

"I don't care about your stupid strikes!" Ash shoved again, harder.

"Strike two."

"Stop treating me like a child!"

"Stop acting like one."

Ash snapped. Swung his fist at Nate's stomach.

Nate caught his wrist easily, his grip firm but not painful. "Strike three."

The next thing Ash knew, he was on the ground, Nate's knee in his back, his arms pinned.

"Get off me! Get OFF!"

"Patrick, rope in my pack. Side pocket."

"What?" Dad sounded uncertain. "Nate—"

"He wants to take swings at adults? He gets consequences." Nate's voice was calm, almost conversational. "Rope. Please."

Ash thrashed, tried to buck Nate off, but it was useless. Nate had him completely immobilized without even trying hard.

Dad brought the rope.

"You can't tie me up! This is abuse! Mom will—"

"Your mom's not here," Nate said, efficiently binding Ash's wrists—not tight enough to hurt, but secure. "And this isn't abuse. This is consequence. You tried to assault an adult. In the real world, that gets you arrested. Out here, it gets you timeout."

He hauled Ash to his feet, marched him to a tree at the edge of the campsite.

"Sit."

"No."

Nate didn't argue. Just pressed on Ash's shoulder—again, not painful, just inexorable—until Ash's knees buckled and he sat.

More rope. Around his chest, securing him to the tree. Still not painful, but absolutely immobilizing.

"This is insane! You can't just—"

"I can and I did." Nate stepped back. "You want to act like a rabid dog, you get treated like one. You'll sit there until you're ready to apologize—to me for trying to hit me, to your dad for the disrespect, and mean it."

"I'll never—"

"Then you'll sit there all night. No dinner. No tent. Just you and the tree."

"Dad!" Ash looked at his father desperately. "You can't let him—"

"You tried to punch your uncle," Dad said quietly. "What did you think would happen?"

"Mom wouldn't—"

"Your mother's not here," Dad said. "Specifically because she'd try to protect you from consequences you need to face. You want to use your fists like a man? Then you get treated like one. And men who assault others face consequences."

They turned away, started setting up camp like Ash wasn't there, wasn't tied to a tree, wasn't screaming threats and obscenities at them.

Eventually, Ash's throat was raw and he fell silent.

Watching them.

Hating them.

But also, in some tiny part of his brain, starting to realize he'd miscalculated.

Badly.

They really were going to leave him there.

No dinner. No tent.

Just him, the tree, and the growing understanding that his rage had finally hit something it couldn't move.

Something immovable.

Something that would not bend, would not break, would not give in to his anger.

The sun was starting to set, painting the mountains gold.

It was going to be a long night.