filled his ears, again.

“What about your tank?”

It has been a question that he had not, could not, ask for himself. And yet it was a question that festered, like an old cut, and that at this moment had begun to throb and bleed.

What, exactly, was he doing?

On the rocks of a beloved, familiar vacation retreat, his choice; his need, had seemed painlessly clear. Surrounded by scenery, and sounds, and smells that had always brought him joy and peace, even a moment of anger — of, actually, rage — had seemed safe, contained, un-tethered from any actual consequence. What happens in South Bristol, stays in South Bristol, he would wryly recount twenty-five years later. But today was different. Today, he was where all was real — his frustrations; his fears, the sadness — actual or anticipated — of others. Here, there was no cushion of fantasy.

He saw his father and Helga enter the living room. His father slightly met his gaze, and Brandon desperately looked for an unspoken assurance — a glance, a momentary flicker across his well-trained stone-facedness — it’s all going to be OK, pal. He saw nothing. Nothing, except for a resolve that he had never seen before — one whose roots he would only begin to uncover.