I pieced together the details of my father’s last few days from cryptic phone messages, Aunt Ellen’s paraphrased and embellished updates and rampant rumors bounding about town of Hodgkins. The residents relished dramatic gossip, playing it up and down like a Duncan Imperial tied to their middle finger. How the local dry cleaner knows more about it than his son is questionable, but not entirely unreasonable.

He spent the first night spilling his story to the police in an effort to skirt any jail time and further prosecution. First tears. A wife leaving him with two kids. Relocation for job he didn’t want. And more recently, the raccoon incident and the impending medical bills.

“That’s a tough break,” the transcribing officer said to him, “but there are legal ways to handle the situation.”

“I know.”

Then he moved to names, connections, plans and intentions. In the back of his mind, he knew it could all come at him when he got out. The white hat kid at the lake would make sure of it.

He got a night in the county containment to think about it. Although, his cellmates filled the air with enough distraction to keep him from getting too deep.

“Howc’m they got to take my shoes?” one drunk yelled continuously. “Not jus’ my laces. The whole shoe. Both of ‘em.”

“You didn’t have shoes when you got here,” the patrolling officer answered.

“Whatever.”

The next day, he sat in the back of the squad car and pointed out locations. They nodded and took notes, treating him like their global positioning system for stool pigeons.

That night he had his own cell, but still couldn’t sleep. So he spent the time reading about Sun Bluff, Idaho and Waterton, Oregon. One of them would be our new home, and either of them would be better than Aunt Ellen’s basement.