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, moderately

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

her the same brand of love as me, a bland, almost flavorless thing with an artificial

aftertaste. I was 12 when she disappeared, and as much as I missed, I was somewhat preoccupied

with what we 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

winder 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

...