Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 81
Empty Pack

Sunday morning came gray and misty, clouds low on the mountains.

Ash woke before anyone called him. Lay in his sleeping bag listening to Dad's steady breathing, Uncle Nate's occasional shift. His shoulders still ached. His legs still hurt. But the burning rage that had lived under his skin for weeks?

Quiet.

Not gone. He could feel it there, buried deep. But quiet. Like it was too tired to fight.

He slipped out of his sleeping bag carefully, trying not to wake anyone. Unzipped the tent slow and silent. Stepped out into the cool morning.

The twelve rocks from yesterday were still lined up by the dead fire pit. Evidence of every time he'd chosen anger.

Ash started breaking down what he could of camp quietly—rolling up the bear bag rope, organizing the cooking supplies. Not because anyone told him to. Just because it needed doing.

"You're up early."

Uncle Nate emerged from the tent, stretching. His expression was unreadable.

"Couldn't sleep," Ash said quietly.

"Shoulders hurt?"

"Yeah."

"They will for a few days." Nate started rebuilding the fire for breakfast. "That's the point. Your body remembers weight longer than your mind does."

Ash nodded. Kept organizing gear.

"No rocks today," Nate said. "Clean slate. But I'll be watching."

"I know."

Dad emerged twenty minutes later to find the fire going, water heating for instant oatmeal, and most of camp already broken down.

"Well," he said, looking between Ash and Nate. "This is different."

They ate breakfast in relative silence. Ash didn't complain about the bland oatmeal. Didn't mutter about wanting real food. Just ate, cleaned his bowl, packed it away.

When they loaded their packs for the six-mile hike out, Ash's felt impossibly light. Same gear as yesterday, minus forty pounds of rocks. The absence of weight was almost disorienting.

"How's the pack?" Dad asked as they started down the trail.

"Light," Ash said.

"Enjoy it," Nate said from behind. "That's what life feels like without carrying anger."

The hike out was easier—mostly downhill, wider trails, and Ash's pack feeling like nothing. But he was still exhausted from yesterday. His legs moved mechanically, one foot in front of the other.

About two miles in, they passed another hiking group going the opposite direction. College-aged kids, loud and laughing, one of them accidentally bumped Ash with his oversized pack as they passed on the narrow trail.

"Watch it," Ash started to say, then caught himself. Felt the phantom weight of a rock that would have been added. Closed his mouth.

"Sorry, little dude!" the college kid called back cheerfully.

Ash just nodded. Kept walking.

He saw Dad and Nate exchange a glance.

At mile four, they stopped for water and trail mix. Ash's favorite kind—the one with M&Ms—but the bag ran out just as it got to him. The old Ash, the Thursday Ash, would have complained. Would have pointed out it wasn't fair.

Sunday Ash just ate the plain nuts and raisins Dad offered from his bag instead.

"You're being very quiet," Dad observed.

"Talking got me rocks," Ash said.

"Being disrespectful got you rocks. You can talk without being disrespectful."

"I don't know how right now," Ash admitted. "Everything in my head still sounds angry. So I'm just... not saying it."

"That's smart," Nate said. "First rule of controlling anger—pause before you speak. Think about whether what you're about to say will help or hurt."

"Everything I want to say would hurt."

"Then don't say it. But eventually, you'll need to learn to transform those thoughts into ones that help."

They reached the parking area by noon. The SUV looked impossibly civilized after three days in the woods. Ash helped load gear without being asked, then climbed into the backseat and immediately closed his eyes.

"He's different," he heard Dad say quietly to Nate.

"Exhausted," Nate corrected. "The real test is whether he stays different when he's rested."

"You think it worked?"

"I think he learned that anger has weight. Whether he keeps carrying it is up to him."

The drive home was quiet. Ash dozed fitfully, waking occasionally to hear Dad and Nate talking about everyday things—Nate's next deployment, Dad's work, basketball season starting soon.

Normal conversation between brothers. Not about him. Not analyzing him. Just... talking.

It was nice, actually. Being ignored. Being allowed to just exist without being a problem to solve.

When they pulled into the driveway, Mom came out immediately. Her eyes went straight to Ash, scanning for damage.

"How was it?" she asked carefully.

"Educational," Dad said.

"Hard," Ash added quietly.

Mom looked between all three of them, clearly wanting more information but not wanting to push.

"I need a shower," Ash said. "And to lie down."

"Of course. Go ahead."

Ash grabbed his pack, headed inside. Behind him, he heard Mom's voice, low and worried: "Patrick, what happened? He seems..."

"Tired," Uncle Nate said. "Let him rest. We'll explain later."

In his room, Ash dropped his pack and sat on his bed. His actual bed, with its actual mattress, felt like a cloud after two nights on the ground.

He unzipped his pack to unload his dirty clothes and stopped.

There at the bottom, under everything else, was a single rock. Not one he'd earned. A smooth, flat one, about the size of his palm. With writing on it in black Sharpie.

"Remember the weight. Choose what you carry. - Uncle Nate"

Ash turned it over. On the back, in Dad's handwriting: "We love you. Even angry. But especially in control."

He set the rock on his nightstand. Stared at it for a long moment.

Then he took the longest, hottest shower of his life, washing three days of sweat and dirt and maybe some anger down the drain.

When he came downstairs for dinner, clean and in fresh clothes, Mom and Dad were setting the table while Uncle Nate opened a beer. He was staying one more night before driving back to North Carolina in the morning.

"Feel better?" Mom asked.

"Yeah. Tired, but better."

Mom brought the pot roast to the table. "Uncle Nate was telling us about the hike. Said you made it all the way to the peak."

"We all did," Ash said, sitting down.

"Was it hard?"

Ash thought about the rocks. About the weight. About sitting tied to a tree hungry and cold.

"Yeah," he said simply. "Really hard."

"But you did it," Mom said, studying his face with that careful parental concern.

Dad nodded. "That's what matters."

Dinner was pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans—comfort food. Ash ate steadily, quietly. The adults kept the conversation light—Nate's drive tomorrow, weather predictions for the week, nothing heavy.

When Mom offered seconds on potatoes, Ash took a small helping even though he wanted more. Old habits from the weekend—taking only what you need, not everything you want.

Another glance between the adults.

After dinner, Ash helped clear the table while Mom and Dad settled in the living room. Uncle Nate joined him in the kitchen.

"You did good today," Nate said, drying dishes as Ash washed. "No rocks."

"I wanted to add about six."

"But you didn't."

"I was too tired."

"No," Nate corrected. "You were controlled. Tired helps, but you made the choice." He set down the dish towel. "I'm leaving early tomorrow. Before you're up for school. So I want to say this now."

Ash looked up at him.

"You're angry. You have every right to be angry. Your situation is impossibly unfair." Nate's voice was steady, serious. "But anger is like fire. Controlled, it can power you. Uncontrolled, it burns everything down. Including you."

"How do I control it when everything makes me mad?"

"Practice. Time. And remembering what it costs to carry it." Nate squeezed his shoulder—the same shoulder that had ached under forty pounds of rocks. "You're stronger than you think, Noam. Or Ash. Whoever you are today."

"I don't know who I am today."

"That's okay too."

Later, getting ready for bed, Ash found his phone plugged in on his desk—Mom must have charged it while he was gone. Dozens of texts from his friends, wondering where he'd been all weekend.

He started to type a response, then stopped. Thought about what he wanted to say versus what would actually help.

Finally sent: "Family camping trip. Back now. See you at school Tuesday."

Simple. Neutral. No anger.

He looked at the rock on his nightstand. Picked it up, felt its weight—so light compared to twelve of them. But still there. Still real.

Tomorrow was Monday. Therapy with Dr. Reeves. She'd want to know about the weekend. About the fight with Brett, the camping trip, all of it.

He'd tell her about the rocks. About learning that anger had literal weight. About choosing not to carry it.

About how tired he was of being angry all the time.

Maybe that was progress.

Maybe that was enough for now.

He set the rock back down, turned off the light, and for the first time in weeks, fell asleep without rage burning under his skin.

Just exhaustion.

And maybe, possibly, the tiniest bit of peace.