The troubles had always been over money. The bottle didn’t seem to be necessary unless things weren’t going well. When work didn’t come, his father didn’t shave. That black-gray stubble signaled trouble. It revealed a don’t-give-a-hoot-about-anything attitude. It warned that it was time for the bottle, and the bottle meant the mean man would come back.

Dad didn’t have big hands. But they sure hurt when he slapped Thomas around. His dad never hit him hard enough to land him in the hospital. But his father had hit him enough to leave marks—to leave bruises.

But the anger wasn’t entirely predictable. It wasn’t A plus B plus C equals D. It was more random, more ridiculous.

Like the time Thomas crashed his bike and came home late carrying it because the tire was shredded. His dad had flipped out and not spoken to him for a month. No hitting that time, just anger. It seemed so out of proportion to the incident. It was just a bicycle tire.

As Thomas thought of this, he saw someone pedaling down the street. Thomas ducked, then gasped. It was his father riding his bike. The very bike he’d had to leave behind.

What’s he riding my bike for?

Dad got off and leaned the rusted-out bike against the side of the house, then walked up the steps to the porch. He suddenly turned around.

For a second Thomas thought he’d been seen.

Then his father went inside, banging the squeaky door behind him.

For a long time Thomas stared at the house and wondered about the man inside.

You’ve come all this way, Tommy boy. You gotta go inside.

He stayed hidden for a long time, crouched on some frozen leaves, watching. The wind made him cold and he knew he needed to go back to the truck stop not far away and see if he could catch a ride back to Greenville. He’d come back here to see if his father was still alive. And he was.

You came for more and you know it.

Thomas didn’t know what he was going to find when he opened the door to the house. It was still their house and he still had every right to open the door. Maybe Dad was sitting in there reading the Bible and petting a dog named Sparky and listening to some old-time gospel hymns.

Instead, he found the very picture that he was hoping had been forever erased.

The bottle of whiskey was on the kitchen counter, two-thirds empty.

Dad sat in his armchair, the glass in his hand, the television on. He’d been in the house for an hour. That was how long it had taken Thomas to decide to go on inside.

Now he was wishing he had just gone back home.

When he stepped into the family room, the noise from the creaking floor made his father turn. He turned slowly, as if he couldn’t care less if there were armed thieves ready to take everything and shoot him dead.