Chapter 10
Speeding toward Ohio. There was no good-bye. No letter. I left no sign that I had visited my father at the cabin. I took one thing that belonged to him: a sunflower photograph with rich green leaves, a thick stalk, summer-yellow petals, a thunderstorm-blue background, and Nebraska Close’s signature on the reverse side. The photograph was a token of our relationship, something to remember him by. Although I chose not to have Isaac West in my life, the sunflower picture was needed, a memory of my lost family, of a time when I loved my father—so long ago, endlessly.
Interstate 80 to Shermont, Ohio was bumpy. I drove recklessly, weaving over the double yellow line, speeding around unsafe bends. It was the middle of the afternoon, but to me, it felt like the coldest and darkest nig
