“My father went crazy after his brother died in a car accident. Driving downhill, the brakes went out on my uncle’s old Plymouth—slammed into a limestone wall. My father worked in a mill in Ohio. And he began to drink a lot. My mother started to call him ‘Adolf’ because he would come home in these fits of rage after work and he would rant about the unions. Talking about the working man getting screwed and how bad the conditions were where he worked. He’d take all his anger at the world out on us. Then one evening, he threatened my mother with a pistol. But only once. That’s all it took—one time. My mother packed my brothers and me up the next morning after my father left for work, and we left Ohio for Kentucky. She was a good mother. Didn’t take any shit from anyone. She raised and mothered us, worked and provided everything we needed. She never asked my father for a dime, not one cent, and she never allowed him any contact with us.”

Laying his empty cup on the table, Jack is shivering and shaking, wanting to scream, gritting his teeth. Wanting to break down. His limbs have drawn tight. An aching begins in the soles of his feet, travels all the way to his jaw. His right hand pulses with pain as he rocks back and forth in his chair. Is he having a heart attack? Fabiola sets her cup on the table, reaches for Jack’s hand. Looking at her, he doesn’t see Fabiola. What he sees is divine—someone he has not laid eyes on for years. His mother. Her face. Her smile. Hands touching his, she tells him, “It’s okay. Let it out, Jack. Let it all out.”

And he does.

ANNE

ANNE

Hands grip her shoulders, shake her body awake. Lids part. Eyes open. Anne feels as if she hasn’t slept in weeks. The adrenaline dump left her body in a fatigued state. Her blurry field of vision contains an outline with Nick Cave locks slicked back, flaming red-rimmed glasses that glow next to the phone light by his face.

“Anne?”

Anne’s groggy brain hurts, her neck is tight and stiff, and her ankle aches with every beat of her heart. Feeling like a punching bag in Mike Tyson’s training camp, she says, “Trot?”

“No, it’s Santa fuckin’ Clause. Fuck yes, it’s Trot. We gotta git.” Trot stands, looming over her.

“Fuck you. Get that light outta my face.” Balling her fists into her eyes, she yawns and asks, “What about the dog?”

Kicking her feet with the side of his boot, Trot says, “Dog? What fucking dog? Come on, up off your ass, greenhorn.”

Pulling her legs in, Anne says, “What the fuck, man? Give a girl her space. Damn dog chased and attacked me.”