He shut off the truck’s motor and headlights and sat for several minutes doing nothing more than stare out into the desert. There was a bright full moon that illuminated everything in sight as if it were nearly midday. Any other time, Henry might have looked around him and marveled at the beauty of the night, how everything was bathed in a bright blue hue, and how the stars seemed so close he could have reached out and touched them. But not on this night. On this night, Henry had reached the end of his will to endure any more pain. The overwhelming grief, guilt and sadness he’d been trying to keep at bay for over seventeen years had finally caught up with him, and he understood now, there was no escaping it.

He clumsily reached over and flipped open the glove box, pulling out the holstered .45 caliber Colt revolver he kept there. He pulled the weapon from its holster and checked the chambers, making sure it was loaded, and then set it next to him on the seat. He rummaged around in the glove box again, this time finding a scrap of paper and a pencil. With the moonlight streaming in the truck’s windows, he painstakingly scribbled his last will and testament on the paper. He spoke the words as he wrote them.

“I, Henry McBride, being of sound body and weak mind, do herewith give-ith all my belongings to anybody who can use them. Not that son of a bitch Chad, though.” He paused, trying to remember how a will and testament should end. “Amen,” was all he could come up with.

Physically and emotionally unsteady and numb, he pulled the old yellowed envelope he’d been carrying around with him out of his shirt pocket, folded the note and placed it inside, along with the black-and-white photo of Annie and Josh. He took the pistol, along with the bottle of whiskey he’d bought, and climbed out of the truck, staggering around to the front. Holding the bottle in one hand and the pistol in the other, he raised the bottle to his lips and took a long swig, then wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. Henry stared blankly at the ground for several seconds, wanting nothing more than to have all the hurt and pain go away once and for all. He was tired, very tired, and on that beautiful moonlit desert night, he had finally come to the understanding the only way the pain would go away for good, was for him to make it go away.

He closed his eyes and then slowly raised the pistol barrel to his temple. Several more seconds passed before he very deliberately pulled the hammer back with his thumb. He placed his finger precariously on the trigger and had all but surrendered that final moment on earth when, through all the fog and pain and anguish that had been thundering in his head for so long, came a quiet, soothing voice. “Henry.” The voice was as familiar to him as if it were his own. “Henry,” the voice whispered. “Not yet.” Out of his overwhelming despair and grief, Annie had somehow found him. “Time to change, Henry,” her smiling voice told him. “It’s not too late. It’s never too late.” The voice hummed softly a tune Henry recognized but didn’t know the name of. The humming faded and Annie returned. “Everything is okay, Henry,” she said in the most reassuring voice he’d ever heard. “Now it’s time for you to be okay, too. It’s time to change.”