My father was a careful man, meticulous even. He lived a life that was well measured,

and if some considered him bland or dull, he didn't seem to mind it. He was moderately

successful in his business, he was moderately well thought of by the community we lived

in. When my mother went missing, he was, to anyone that might observe him or inquire,

worried and sad. He was the same as me, reasonable, patient, and generally kind in the

unfocused way he might expect from a pleasant doctor or taxi driver, and attached civility

and courtesy that in more to do with how my father was than how he felt about me, not that I

complained. Even when I was younger, I had enough sense to know so many kids had it worse.

When my mother was around, they got along well enough, though he seemed to feed at the same

brand of love as me, a blend almost flavorless thing with an artificial aftertaste.

I was 12 when she disappeared, and as much as I missed her, I was somewhat preoccupied with what

would come next, because I had known for some time that occasionally, just every few weeks or so,

my father would go out into the woods. He never occurred to me to follow him,

or to even question internally why I didn't consider doing so. My fear of my father was like a

background radiation, invisible but ever present since I was old enough to understand that something

was wrong. Eating and mutating me slowly enough that I never stopped to wonder if everyone lived

so tight with tension and foreboding, perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When I saw him going into the woods one winter afternoon, I wondered if the time had finally come.

He never went into those woods. He wasn't the outdoorsy type, as he was quick to point out

as he pulled his lips away from dry, polished teeth, and nod in that precisely affirmable manner

that he had. A mannequin making the motions of a real man. He was just home from work.

But an hour earlier than usual, which was hard in and of itself, when he parked and turned

...