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    His boots crunched on the gravel driveway winding to the two-story, wood frame farmhouse crowded by overgrown trees and the constant drone of interstate traffic less than a mile away. On closer inspection, he noticed boarded-up windows and frayed blue tarps covering large gaps of missing shingles on the storm-ravaged roof. Tattered sections of weathered fencing and a faded "For Sale" sign were obscured by patches of creeping beggarweed. To the east, a large pond served as a natural habitat for creatures big and small, including the occasional alligator patrolling the water.
    Lloyd approached the screened front porch overrun with purple jacaranda shrubs and trumpet-shaped hibiscus flowers. For as long as he could remember, the farmhouse belonged to his adoptive parents who helped a troubled teenage boy and showed him love—the same parents who fought hard to keep him out of prison.
    A motion sensor activated a bank of floodlights against the side of the house, exposing the three-car garage.
    A patio door creaked open, followed by the click-clack sound of a lever-action rifle.
    "Who's there?" an elderly woman wearing a flannel nightgown and straw sandals called out in a raspy voice.
    "It's me," Lloyd replied. "I'm home."
    Brenda Sullivan stepped around an iron sugar kettle and studied the stranger in jeans and a white T-shirt. She lowered the Winchester rifle and reached for the folded bifocals in her pocket. "Lloyd?"
    "I would have called, but I don't have a phone."
    "What in God's name are you doing here?"
    "I'm on parole," said Lloyd. "I'm a free man now." He advanced up the porch steps and hugged his mother, a woman who'd spent the latter half of her adult life raising two boys with the hope she'd see both lead happy, successful, lives. She'd failed on both accounts.
    Brenda swatted a mosquito with her frail, bird-like arm. She lowered the rifle and peered at him. "You look taller and skinnier than I remember," she said. "Don't they feed you in prison?"
    "Three hots and a cot."
    "How'd you get here?"
    "I took the bus and walked," said Lloyd. He smelled the liquor on her breath as he followed her inside the sparsely furnished home with exposed beam ceilings and wicker furniture. "Where's Dad?"
    Brenda ignored the question as she gathered up empty whiskey bottles and threw them in the kitchen trash. "I've been busy."
    "I can tell."
    "There's sliced bread in the pantry," said Brenda. "I keep a jar of chunky peanut butter. The kind you like. I'll let you open it."
    "Is Dad around?"
    "Your father's not with us anymore," she said flatly. "He passed away last year."
    The words hit Lloyd in the stomach like a Terminator punch, knocking the wind out of him before his brain could process the information. "What happened?"
    "I'm sorry you had to find out like this. You weren't the easiest person to get a hold of."
    Lloyd put his hands on his head. "Jesus, Mom you really should have told me. I can't believe he's gone. What happened?"
    Brenda searched the kitchen cabinet for a new bottle. She twisted the cap and filled a dirty glass with Jack Daniels. "It doesn't matter."
    "It does to me."
    "Your brother never made the funeral. Too busy playing with his little whore to pay his respects."
    "Go easy on the sauce," Lloyd cautioned her. "If Dad saw you like this—"
    "I'm not his concern anymore." Brenda steadied herself on the counter. "People live. People die. The cycle of life doesn't stop."
    Lloyd noticed the family photos on the fridge. Pictures of a happier time. "Where's Josh? Or is he dead too?"
    "Don't be morbid. Your brother's still in Lakewood, alive and well. Got himself a girlfriend with a kid that's not his, or so he claims. They share a trailer together."
    Lloyd stepped over piles of dirty laundry in the hall and found more empty bottles than he could carry in both hands. "When did you start drinking like this?"
    "The doctor says my liver's dying. The rest of me is still trying to catch up."
    "You need to quit."
    "And