I pulled out of her neighborhood with the windows down, playing Siouxsie and the Banshees loud as I headed toward home. Maybe I’d take the day off and insist Lucas do too. We’d been working too damn hard these past few weeks.

Then, just a little ahead of me on the side of the road, I spotted an old red Chevrolet truck.

My eyes locked on it as I passed. The windows were down; the cab was empty — I passed far too quickly and jerked my head back, swerving on the road as I tried to get a better look.

Fucking hell, that wasn’t…that couldn’t be…

I wrenched the wheel around; the tires squealing as I flipped a U-turn. I turned down the music as I pulled up behind the truck, staring at the license plate with a sickening feeling in my gut.

I recognized the plate. The dent in the rusted back bumper. The crack in the glass on the back windshield.

I stepped out of the car but left the engine running. My hands were suddenly cold, but sweat was dripping down my back. Every step felt slow and robotic as I walked toward the Chevy’s driver side door. There was a roaring in my ears like a distant ocean, pulsing with the beat of my heart as I peered through the open window into the cab.

Ripped seats, ash all over the dash and a distinct odor of menthol cigarettes. I swallowed down my rising nausea as I realized the door was only partially closed, so I eased it open. The keys were gone, but there were black plastic bags on the passenger seat and in the bed of the truck, clothing and trash littering the floor.

And there, barely visible beneath the front seat, was a shotgun with the initials R.R. carved into the wooden stock.

Reagan Reed. My father was back.

I’d smoked through the last of my pack of cigarettes by the time Jason pulled up in front of Jess’s house. I’d parked a little way down the road, so she wouldn’t see me out the windows and come ask what I was doing.

Jason had already spotted me as he stepped out of the Z, walking over to tap on my window curiously.

“What’s up?” he said as I cranked the glass down. “I thought you were going back home. Did you decide to go for round two?”

His jovial smile faded as I said, “My dad is back in town. I saw his fucking truck.”

He didn’t look nearly as surprised as he should have. He swore softly, awkwardly running his fingers through his hair as he said, “Where’d you see him?”