Sam’s legs went numb. He grabbed the doorframe. “Where is he? Where’s my father?”
Not angry. Not drunk. Just lost. Just a father who wanted to come home.
“He’s out there, Sam. He’s always been out there. And he’s still calling.” He-s Out There
They wouldn’t find Sam.
I’m here, Dad. I’m right here.
The sign at the county line had been bullet-riddled for twenty years: WELCOME TO PACKER’S CORNER. POP. 312. Now it was just a ragged metal ghost, like everything else in his memory.
The chair turned slowly.
“How?” Sam whispered.
She didn’t know. No one knew.
You don’t have to do this, the reasonable part of his brain whispered. Turn around. Drive back to Nashville. Forget he ever existed.