By the time we had the mess cleaned up, I decided to leave Pa be for a spell to cool off while I tried settling everyone down. I had no other comfort to give them but Twinkies and hugs. After giving out both to each of my siblings and making sure they were in their rooms for the night, I ventured outside, thinking I’d find Pa on the porch in his rocking chair, but he wasn’t there. Dragging my feet from not wanting to deal with him, I checked the chapel next. It was empty, and so was the produce stand across the driveway from it. No sign in the packhouse or the tractor supply barn.

I was all but ready to call it quits when I peeped inside the shed and found a pool of blood by an open tackle box. The fish filleting knife was gone. Leaving the shed with my heart pounding and ears ringing, I could just barely make out the rusty melody of a Creedence song coming from the tobacco field. It was difficult to pinpoint his exact location. Each time I started down one row, the rasp of his singing shifted in the breeze and came from another direction. I wanted to holler for him to get still so I could find him, but the grip of fear told me his plan was to not be found this time.

“‘I want to know . . . you ever . . . the rain . . . coming down . . .’” His voice was weak either from his giving up or his impending death, I wasn’t sure.

I knew drawing attention to myself wouldn’t help, so I pinched my lips tightly shut and wove through the rows. Shrouded in heavy clouds, the night held no light from the moon or stars. It reminded me of being lost in the corn maze and unable to find Raleigh. My brother was eventually found, so I held on to a speck of confidence that I would be able to find my father too.

With only Pa’s weak voice as my beacon, I kept searching through the sea of plant decay. The tobacco stalks should have been loaded down with healthy fat leaves, clinging to me as I passed by. Instead the shriveled plants were more like the prongs of a yard rake, scraping my legs and arms, leaving sharp stings. This crop was opposite of the crop we’d produced last year, even if we lost half of it, but the dark madness was exactly the same.

I rubbed my forearm and held my breath. A groan echoed from a few rows over. I about-faced and shot a line straight through the brittle hills of tobacco, pummeling them in my wake.