Then, through the din, there was the long honking of a horn. Beeeeeeeeeep, honk, honk, beeeeeeeeep. It was distant at first, as if it were a long way off. Beeeeeeeeep, honk, beeeeeep. It was closer now. Honk, honk, honk. Henry snapped back. Someone behind him in the lumberyard parking lot was trying to get out, and Henry was blocking the way. In his rearview mirror, Henry could see a heavyset man with the stub of a cigar between his teeth in the truck behind him. He was yelling something, but Henry couldn’t hear what it was.

Henry’s heart was racing, his breath was short and his hands were sweating so much it was hard for him to hold on to the steering wheel. Beeeeeeeeep. Henry shook his head, and then shook it again. He was back, but still couldn’t move. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose, and he shook his head again. The fat man was climbing out of his truck.

Hands shaking, Henry instinctively reached down and grabbed the floor shift, jammed the transmission in gear and hit the gas. The truck came to life, lurching forward into the street. Henry wrenched the wheel to the right and the truck responded with a quick jerk in that direction. He floored it and sped away from the scene as fast as the truck could carry him.

CHAPTER 3

“All right folks,” the man behind the bar said as he switched on the lights, illuminating the inside of the place. “That’s it—closing time. Drink up.” He walked over and unplugged the jukebox. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps” ground to an unceremonious halt. Henry sat on the stool that had been his home for the past ten hours and stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar—a reflection he could see clearly now that the lights were on. He looked old, and thin, and drunk. He hated his life, the drinking, the nightmares, and the guilt. What would Annie think of him and who he had become? What would Josh think of his dad being drunk for days on end? Henry’s chin fell to his chest.

“Come on, man,” the bartender slapped Henry on the back as he walked past. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” It wasn’t the first time Henry heard the quip. He groggily raised his head and wondered if bartenders went to school to learn clever closing time sayings. That one and, “It’s no-tell motel time,” were the two he’d heard most bartenders say.

The bartender went back around behind the bar and picked up Henry’s now empty glass. Henry was staring at his reflection again. “Gotta go,” the bartender repeated. He lightly slapped his hand on the bar twice in front of Henry. “Come on pard,” he said “I know you put in a full shift, but you ain’t getting anything extra for overtime.” Henry had never heard that one before.

Henry tried to talk, but nothing came out. He just nodded, waved his hand in front of his face, as if brushing a fly away, slid off the stool and staggered to the door. There were other people in the bar, but Henry didn’t notice them, and they didn’t notice him. He had become invisible, and that was just the way he liked it. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the night. It was cool and raining, and apparently had been for quite some time. It had been warm and sunny when Henry almost unconsciously slid the truck loaded with lumber into the parking lot of the bar only minutes after seeing the accident. He didn’t even know the name of the bar. But then, there were very few bars he had been in that he did know the names of. The name of the place was never important. Just that they had liquor, and plenty of it—and this one had.