He remembered in vivid detail his last visit to his aunt’s house. And the events, and moments of rage, that had preceded it.

It had been a cooler-than average fall day, weeks ago. He had just turned the corner into his grandmother’s street, windbreaker defiantly unzipped to allow the cold air — as it always did — to calm him.

It had been a good day. The customary slings and arrows of 8th grade had seemed to subside that week, and he had finished his Edgar Allan Poe paper early. And waiting for him on his grandmother’s low wooden table, where he had left it that morning, was his latest model kit. “Another model?” she had asked; her customary response to his regular acquisitions. He had learned to largely ignore it.

In the near distance, he had seen a familiar, gold-brown, dented fender. He had squinted — was that Llewelyn’s car? This being the early 80’s, large, bulbous, somewhat battered station wagons were all but rare. But still — he had quickened his pace. His heart had begun to race: why would they have been there at that time?