Soon after arriving in Oklahoma, Desmond learned why Charlotte had been so hesitant to put him on the airplane. Despite being his next of kin, Orville Hughes had no use for Desmond, or any five-year-old boy for that matter. The man was tall and muscular, with a mean face, constantly arranged in a sneer.

He lived just south of Oklahoma City, in a small farmhouse outside Slaughterville. Orville worked on the oil rigs, usually on two- or three-week shifts, after which he’d be home for a few weeks. Desmond was largely left to fend for himself. He looked forward to the time alone.

When Orville was home, he drank whiskey late into the night and slept half the day. Sometimes he listened to music, mostly cowboy songs. The rest of the time he watched reruns of old Westerns. Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and Have Gun—Will Travel were his favorites. Desmond wasn’t allowed to speak or make noise in any way when a movie with Charles Bronson, John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood was on. He was, however, required to cook and clean. His uncle meted out punishment only once for non-compliance. That was enough for Desmond.

He soon identified a pattern to his uncle’s drinking. The first half of a bottle barely affected the man. The remainder was like a potion that changed him completely. He got meaner with every swallow. He talked more, sometimes to himself, sometimes at Desmond, his English accent growing thicker by the minute.

He talked about his childhood, in London, after the war. Everything was prefaced with after the war.

“You think your life is hard, boy? You don’t know a thing about hard living. After the war, that was hard. You’re soft, boy. Your daddy was soft too. He took over that sheep ranch from your mother’s family, lived the soft life. Raised a soft little brat.”

He talked about work on the rigs, how hard it was, how heroic he was. Late at night, when he was deep into the bottle, he talked about the accidents: men losing fingers, hands, entire limbs. Deaths. The stories were gruesome. When Desmond couldn’t take it anymore, he got up to leave. That was a mistake. His uncle yelled at him not to walk away when he was talking to him. “You’re so soft you can’t even bear to hear about real men’s work, can you?”

He took another swallow of whiskey.

“Can you?”

He studied Desmond.

“You watched them die, didn’t you? Then you ran away. That’s why you got them scars on your legs—from running.”

He had argued then. That was his worst mistake of all. He learned after that. His uncle only wanted a verbal punching bag. It was like Orville was using his words to drain the poison out of himself. He didn’t want that poison returned. Desmond learned to sit in silence.