Thompson Ingleby lived nearby. I had never been to his house, but he’d described the location, its proximity to the canyon. And he’d mentioned the distinctive train car that sat in their front yard, heavily graffitied by his older brother and his friends. Pulling back onto the road, I drove north for less than five minutes before their homestead came into view. Among the broken-down cars, trucks, and tractors was the train car, grad 2017 and fuck off prominently tagged on its side. Nice touch.

As I drove down the rutted drive, I was greeted by two large barking dogs, intent on eating my tires. Hopefully Thompson would emerge and shepherd me inside. Being torn apart by snarling mongrels was not the way I wanted to go out. I stopped my truck but kept it running while I waited for rescue.

A short, sinewy man in a dirty white undershirt walked onto the porch and glowered at me. He had a pistol in the waistband of his filthy jeans, and his hand rested on it, anticipating trouble. When he saw the tall, pale kid in his driveway, he whistled through two fingers and the dogs obediently galloped to his side. He disappeared back into the house with the animals, and moments later, Thompson came out. I turned off the ignition and opened the car door.

“Hi.” Thompson couldn’t hide his delight. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I came for a drink,” I said. “Can you get some of that grain alcohol?”

“Umm . . . sure.” He glanced over his shoulder. I could tell he didn’t want me to go inside his house. Neither did I. “I’ll get it and we can go down to the barn.”

Ten minutes later, we were perched on sawhorses in a dilapidated building cluttered with farming equipment, car parts, and empty beer cans. Thompson handed me a jar half filled with a cloudy liquid. The smell made my eyes water.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his jar to mine. We drank then and both shuddered at the taste. The alcohol burned in my throat, chest, and stomach, but I felt myself relaxing, the anxiety seeping out of me. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, the day’s dramatic events tying my guts in knots. The strong alcohol on an empty stomach hit me hard. After a few more gulps, my loss and sadness became more profound, more painful. I resigned myself to my tragic fate.

We drank in silence, Thompson matching me sip for sip. I had a reason to be getting wasted at six in the evening, but Thompson was being chivalrous again. I guess he didn’t want me to drink alone. Soon, I felt ready to execute my plan. And if I drank much more, I wouldn’t be able to pilot my truck back to the canyon. Setting my jar down on the concrete floor, I turned to say my goodbyes.