Michael’s eyes shot open. There was no recognition at first, only the feral panic of a hunted animal. He scrambled upright, rubbing his face, before his eyes locked onto mine. The panic dissolved, replaced by something far worse, something I had never seen on my son’s face in all his thirty-two years.

Shame. deep, crushing, debilitating shame.

He opened the door slowly. The air that escaped the car was stale—the smell of unwashed bodies and despair.

“Dad?” His voice was a hoarse rasp, barely a whisper. “What… what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” My voice trembled, cracking under the weight of the sight before me. “Michael, what the hell is going on? Where is the house? Where is Jennifer? Why are you living in a Honda Civic with my grandsons in the middle of March?”

He couldn’t look at me. He stared at his boots, the leather scuffed and worn. “It’s complicated.”