My heart numb, my stomach rotting out, I parked the truck at the bottom of Aldi’s driveway. No way the tires would make it up to the garage. We walked. The big tin building had settled deep and silent into the snow. It was dark. I didn’t focus, not fully, on what I might find inside. I kept focused on Rudy instead, my irritation a constant comforting motor. Rudy hiked grimly next to me. He was the one who picked the lock, shouldered the door open, pushed us into the gloom and the stench that told me I was right.

We found Aldi Birch’s body, his shattered leg splayed off-kilter, his face mostly gone, his gun nearby.

We stood. We stood. We sank. We sank. Rudy said, “I’m going to puke,” and he puked. “I’m going to shit,” he said. For that, he made it to the bathroom. Me, I was all stopped up. I didn’t stop looking at what had been Aldi. I didn’t stop looking at the mess he’d made. Not stopping looking was the least that I could do.

Beside the upturned cot, the answering machine was blinking red. His family, it occurred to me. The next thing to do is contact someone, isn’t that right? What about his son? I pressed the flashing button, so when Rudy came into the room he heard his own voice playing back to him.

Pick up the phone, asshole. Pick up the phone. I’ve had it with this. You’ve got to talk to me. You’re my brother, my father, you’re all I’ve got. Pick up. You motherfucking asshole. Pick. Up. The. Phone. Or wait. I get it. You’ve offed yourself, haven’t you. You’ve finally pulled the trigger. You’re lying there dead on the floor. You’ve blown your own brains out. Well, if that’s what you’ve done, then hear this. I will never forgive you. In fact, I’m coming over there. I’m coming over there and when I get there, you crusty motherfucker, I will kill you all over again.

Rudy’s message cut out. The chickens teemed, hungry. We would feed them, but not yet. It was very cold. We sat side by side on the floor, where it was coldest. “Aldi,” Rudy said. “How could you? How could you leave me?”

But the first feeling that came to me, when feeling came back, rushed in strong and undeniable, from no source that I knew. His choice. He can do this if he wants to. It’s a mystery. It’s his mystery.