I never cried when they told me my son was dead. Not in front of Grace, not at the funeral, not when the cops said it was a drug overdose. I just stood there, snow falling on my shoulders like ash. They called me Citizen of the Year last month. Now I’m just a father with a sawed-off rifle and a list of names.

I found Speedo first. Then Limbo. Then Santa. I wrapped them in chicken wire and dropped them in the river—just like in that crime novel I read. Let the fish clean the bones. Let the current hide the truth.

Grace left yesterday. She said I didn’t care. She didn’t understand. I care too much.

Now my brother Brock is on the phone, voice weak from cancer. 'Viking’s coming for you, Nels. He thinks I did this. You need to finish it before he burns everything down.'

I look at the snowplow parked outside. The engine’s still warm.

I know what I have to do.