I close the book around my index finger, head lolling back on the couch. Holy shit, Adrian. You’re gonna hit me over the head with a hammer, aren’t you?

I open the book again and keep reading. I hear Adrian’s voice in it. Feel him speaking to me.

“Redemption’s Song is for you, Nathan. Read it, and hear my final song.”

I hear you, buddy. Not sure what you’re trying to tell me just yet, but I hear you. I’m listening.

I’m listening.

Stars

Not what I expect, when I pull up. Or maybe it’s exactly what I expect. It’s like something out of a Thomas Kincaid painting, late afternoon sunlight golden-yellow on pine trees crusted thickly around the banks of a placid lake. Private. The only cabins on the lake are the one I pull up to, and another one next to it. My hindbrain registers the pickup truck pulled forward at angle in front of the other cabin—it’s steel gray, enormous, with a silver toolbox across the bed behind the two-door cab. A thick black brush guard protects the headlights and grille, and black running boards stretch from front tire to back. It’s a macho truck, but not so over the top as to be unusual.

The truck means the next-door cabin must be occupied; that’s all I have mental or emotional room for, that observation.

The cabin is incredible. Thick pine logs, a dark green metal roof, covered porch, a chimney made from big stones and boulders. The two cabins are twins, not identical, but alike. The other one looks a little smaller and the roof is red rather than green.

The covered porch is homey, cozy. A rocking chair that looks antique and handmade sits at an angle near the door, with a short, thick section of tree trunk denuded of bark beside it for a table. I am standing beside my car, just taking in the fact that I’m here and that Adrian chose this place for me. He let me spend a year alone, mourning, before telling me about it. But he knew me. He knew I wouldn’t have come before now. He knew I’d need this now.

I mount the steps to the porch, which is bordered by crooked lengths of tree limbs in two rows fastened to the upright posts, with two small steps up. You could sit out here at sunset, lean on the top rail…stare out at the lake as the sun stains it on the way down behind the trees.

On the porch, I feel my heart start hammering. He’s not in there, I know that. It will be empty. A simple rustic cabin in the woods, a place to get away for a while. To rest. To try and heal. To do as he said—start learning how to move on.