When Andy was 25, his dad killed himself.
He had just landed from his Omaha trip and turned his phone off of airplane mode when he got the voicemail from the police.
He called the police back.
He spoke with the police.
He picked up his bag from the carousel.
He hailed a ride home.
He threw his dirty clothes in the hamper.
He packed clean clothes.
He brushed his teeth.
He grabbed a Coke out of the fridge.
He drove to his home town.
He drove to the police station.
He followed the police officer to his childhood home.
The police officer unlocked the door and handed him the keys.
The police officer got back in his car and drove away.
He stood just inside the front door, eyes immediately drawn and glued to the bloodstain on the floor. Then the dirt. Then the cobwebs in the corners. Then the water stains on the walls.
Andy's dad had not fared well in the end. He was too busy with the drink to care for the house, and with nobody else living in it, why? Then the drink started to put thoughts in his head. They were not good thoughts. Then the thoughts started to get the sawed-off shotgun out of the closet. Then put it in his lap. Then put it in his mouth.
Now Andy stood in his childhood bedroom, staring down into an open bedside drawer at a rusty pocket knife. It had not moved in twenty years.