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Ira comes home after the late shift to find Freddie passed
out on the couch, an uncapped bottle of whiskey within reach,
the radio on to a program that brings nothing but bad news. He
turns the radio off and pulls up a blanket up around Freddie’s
shoulders. The nights have started turning colder now. Freddie’s
breath is slow, though even in sleep his face is drawn.
Ira sleeps with the bedroom door open, and wakes in the
night to the sound of Freddie’s nightmares in the other room.
I was wrong, Ira thinks as he turns his pillow over. Freddie
didn’t come home in a coffin.
He didn’t come home at all.
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