"Dad--" I holler as I step into the house.

    Milo, his old golden retriever, saunters up, rams his nose into my crotch. I scratch his head as reflex.

    "Dad--" again. 

    Sarah, my sister who normally checks on him, called earlier. He wasn't answering the phone. I said I'd stop.

    "Where is he boy?" to the dog.

    There's a pounding. Two hard knocks.

    In the kitchen, Dad sits like a deflated balloon on the yellowed linoleum. He bangs the cabinet with his bent knuckles a second time, not realizing I'm already in the room.

    "Oh," he says when he...

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