336 lay on the bedâ great storage, Dad âand against the wall leaned the Ruger rifle, with what looked like a new scope.
Seb sucked a breath, then pushed open the master bedroom door, half-hoping he wouldnât find him, a skin-and-bones man, his teeth yellow, his skin bled of color, his hair long and tangled over his face, life shucked from him one drink at a time.
But there he lay, fully clothed in a pair of greasy jeans and a T-shirt, his mouth open as if surprised that he might find himself in his own bed.
Seb walked up to him. Nudged his knee. âDad. Hey.â
Nothing.
âDad, câmon. Wake up.â He shook him again, harder, his heart just a little in his throat.
The man roused. Groaned.
âDad, itâs me, Seb. Iâm home.â
An eye flickered open. Then the other. For a long, suffocating moment, he stared at Seb, those green eyes unfocused or simply climbing out of someplace Seb didnât want to know about. Seb fought the urge to drop and bury his head on his fatherâs bony knees and weep. Itâs me, Dad. Seb. And . . .
Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry. I meant to be more.
But he pushed his hands into his jean pockets, fisted them.
Finally his father broke through the fog and blinked at Seb. He wiped his mouth, then reached out his hand, gripping Sebâs wrist. âItâs about time you got here, kid.â
About time. Yes, maybe.
âDo you need anything?â
A smirk tweaked his fatherâs face. He followed it with a harrumph. âHow about some breakfast?â
His fatherâs grip fell away and he rolled back into slumber. At least the old man had made it home. Hopefully without hurting anyone.
Seb nodded, slipping into a rhythm, seventeen again, arriving home from practice to find his father passed out on the sofa, the bathroom floor, the bed. Heâd fix himself a sandwich and watch the NFL channel until midnight, plotting his future. Back then, heâd planned on playing for the University of Minnesota. If he got lucky, if he did well at the Combine, heâd get picked up by the Packers or even the Bears. He wanted to stay close, in case his mother came home, in case she saw him in the papers.
Maybe sheâd even want season tickets. Heâd get her a box seat, of course.
Seb missed that, perhaps, the mostâlooking up out of a huddle when he was fifteen, already varsity quarterback, and seeing her, bundled for winter in the stands. Sometimes the only one.
But even his touchdowns hadnât kept her home.
As he reached the door, he heard his father rouse again. Seb stopped and swallowed hard before turning back to face what remained of his family.
âWelcome home, Son.â
âYeah. Thanks, Dad. Iâll get those eggs for you.â
3
Caleb could fall in love with a town that served fish burgers. Especially by a playful indigo lake that flirted with the laughing children running along the stone-tossed beach.
The intoxicating smells of grilled hot dogs, fresh kettle corn, and crispy french fries dripping with peanut oil had all conspired to draw Caleb to the annual Fishermanâs Picnic. Heâd put on a long-sleeved shirt, then walked down the street, crossed at the lightâwhere glass and other debris still marked last nightâs tragedyâand sauntered over to the festivities along the harbor.
Heâd beelined to the Elks Clubâs fish stand, where the âHave You Had Your Walleye Today?â sign made him fork over three bucks.
Walleye, deep-fried, slathered in tartar sauce, on a long hot dog bun. Only in northern Minnesota. Or perhaps, only in Deep Haven.
Yes, Caleb wanted to fit into this town. Wanted to look like the locals, in their cargo pants, their Gore-Tex jackets, their hiking boots. Wanted to know the kids skateboarding down the center of the blocked-off Main Streetâall three blocks of itâand know who to recruit for his offensive line. Wanted the