James muttered to himself as he trudged the deep snow-covered ground to his truck. How dare his dad cast judgment. The man had checked out of James’s life years ago. What did he know about James? Nothing!

Lord, help me maintain perspective here. I know Dad loves me…I think he does…I’m pretty sure he does. Help me to see his side of it. If it’s me who needs to change, Lord, then show me where and how. If it’s him, Lord, give me the patience to wait.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the blue steel door against the cold. He shook his head as he turned the key in the ignition. What was he thinking? God wasn’t listening anymore!

The truck grumbled its own protest as the engine fought to turn over. James dropped into gear and headed out. A nice, quiet drive to clear his head would help. As he hit Kipling’s main street, flashing emergency lights set off a beacon outside a run-down house. An ambulance, fire truck, and several police vehicles littered the yard, their lights lighting up the yard and street like a blaze.

James slowed as he approached and parked a few doors down. Spectators formed a human perimeter that mimicked the yellow tape that warned in bold black letters POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

James slowed as he approached and parked a few doors down. Duane was just coming out of the house as James hopped out of the truck and headed to the house. Absently, he noted the teens he’d seen at the ball park earlier, clustered together on the opposite corner from the house. They stood stiff and silent, their demeanor withdrawn and cold, as if they’d drawn into themselves, desperately trying to shield themselves from whatever fresh tragedy encompassed their world.

Duane met James at the police tape. The man looked unusually pale, sick. “Just keeps getting worse,” He said, his voice weary.

“What?” James shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Looks like a kid blew his brains out with a shotgun in there.”

James let out a grunt in disbelief and sadness. He turned and took a look at the cluster of teens. He recognized the one girl…the maybe-girlfriend from earlier, and a couple of the others, but the bad-boy and Ian were both missing. His heart dropped a beat or two as the possibility that “the kid” was Ian crossed his mind. How would he tell his sister? Please, God…the soul-wrenching cry from his heart didn’t register in his brain at first; it was buried so deep in his psyche, that or several moments, James didn’t even notice his heart had turned straight to God.

“It’s not pretty.”

He turned back to Duane. “Who?”

“Local boy. Drew Abbott. Family moved here after you were gone. Kid was nothing but trouble from the get-go.” He shook his head. “Man!”

One of Duane’s deputies walked up and whispered to Duane. “Can’t find the kid’s mother.”