The road north was a quiet drive. It would have been quiet, anyway. Cars were few and my 97 Buick LeSabre hummed gently on the bare roads. There was residual snow in banks on the land, but the road had since cleared and dried.

It wasn't actually quiet, though. Metal Mix 21 spun freely in the stereo, belting anthems of war and betrayal by the likes of Dio, Slipknot, Avenged Sevenfold and Type O Negative. Each group had lost a member previously that Spring. It was the Spring of Loss, and it had also claimed my Grandfather. Dad died the following fall.

I got to the cabin, ears still ringing, at a quarter after midnight. I was last to arrive. Everybody had long since gone to bed—you hit the hay early at Deer Camp. I struggled with the lock for a minute. It was an old number, probable left over from the days of Grandpa Wilhelm Sr. The mild commotion may have stirred Uncle Bill, because he emerged from the darkness to let me in. He spoke to me in hushed tones.

"We've got you set up in the den."

Normally I would have passed through the kitchen door, through the living room and to my usual room off the living space past the wood-stove, but I guess Paavo had taken that bed. I was late and so I was stuck in the den—the furthest room from the wood-stove.

The coldest room.

"We have some things laid out. We weren't sure what was yours and what was your dad's, but most of the clothes should fit. You can borrow my thirty-aught for now, until we find the combo for the safe."

Dad never shared the combination. Not that he didn't trust his sister's brothers. He just didn't see the need. We rarely prepare for death so young.

I set my copy of Holy Blood, Holy Grail on the night stand, as well as half a can of Full Throttle energy drink. The room was cold, but Uncle Bill had layered the bed with several blankets and a sleeping bag. Despite the Full Throttle, I was ample tired. I placed my glasses on top of the book, switched off the light, and slipped into bed fully clothed.

Except my socks. Only weirdos sleep in socks.