I felt like I was wearing a small part of John Hill’s history. A small part of his grief. “Don’t worry, you’ll grow into it,” John said, and knuckled my hair affectionately. Tears stung my eyes when he’d done that. It was a fatherly thing to do. A kind of affection I’ve craved my whole life, a type of love that was taken away from me by the blast of a gun and a flame-soaked cabin.
