Roger lay on his bed, staring with parched eyes at Jason’s photo, bracing against a fresh assault of fury. He was caught in a place from which there was no escape, a housefly helpless on its back, wings mired in glue, denied death’s blessed release. He owned a shotgun, knew the feel of that cold steel against his throat. But a dead man couldn’t search, and above all that was his mission, to search a world that had forgotten him and his boy. The enormity of it, this demoralizing task, made him feel microscopic, without consequence.
