And it is nothing like what he expects. Knuckle cracks against cheek bone, and the force of it splits through his body, like how lightning rends a tree. Instinctively, he extends his hands to catch the floor. He rests there for a moment, refuses to look back. He cannot believe that this man is his father.

He lifts his gaze to confirm this thing he cannot believe. The man steps closer, and Rory inspects him for some indication that it is not true. But it is his father’s black shoe. It is the crooked scar on the back of his father’s knee, the one he got in a motorcycle accident. It is the tattoo, scrubbed gray by time’s rubber hand, that marks his father’s right shoulder, branding him as the man who once touched the meaning of an old rock song and drank enough whiskey one night to consummate the love. And it is the face of the man he calls his father, but also it is a cruel face, a face that he has never seen.