CHAPTER ONE
 Jim had only one ambition in life.  One.
Having only one aspiration might not seem like much.  Might seem rather unambitious, even.  But eighteen months ago he hadn’t had any.
Then Jimmy’d been born.
Jim bent down and snatched a pebble from between his worn boots, flung it side-arm into the pond.  Ripples undulated across the shimmering surface, reflections of cloudless sky and jagged peaks. 
He’d been told once, from a smiling, frayed-around-the-eyes couple, that the moment you hold your newborn, the moment you cradle that tiny life in your arms, your universe changes.  Changes in way you never could have envisioned.  Jim had simply smiled politely, nodded, his reply superseded by their need to scamper off, protect their busy toddler from one of life’s sharp edges.  They’d known nothing of him.  Nothing of where he’d been or what he’d been through. 
But when the doctor handed Jimmy to him, offered him this tiny creature appearing for all the world like a red faced, oddly proportioned, angry old man, he understood. The universe had changed. Life had thrust upon him, in this vessel of this helpless infant, a purpose.  It had given him a goal. 
Don’t fuck him up!
Jim sighed.  Leaned back against the hood of his truck.  Thirteen thousand feet above sea level, nothing stirred but the breeze, the rustle of dried grass at his feet. Nothing but cold wind and unforgiving rock faces.
If only his father hadn't called.  If only that voice from the past hadn't reached out. Distorted by time and electronics but unmistakable.  Unleashing emotions and recollections he’d kept buried for a reason. 
But he had called. 
Jim picked at scabbed knuckles, opened a trickle of blood he wiped across his jeans.  A cool breeze fell from the peaks, fought the sun against his skin. 
His father’s fault.  One moment.  One moment ruining everything.
Who was he kidding?  More like a parade of moments, each more severe than the last, destined to culminate in tragedy, his father’s call simply the latest catalyst to outburst.  Tragedy averted only by her arrival, standing wide-eyed on the threshold of the front door.  Making him suddenly aware of his raised hand.  Of the two fist-sized holes in the drywall.  Of the smashed picture frame at his feet and their screaming toddler tucked into his left arm.
Jim’s rage had evaporated.  Left him staring, hollow and subdued, as the closing screen door nudged her to action, to rush forward, snatch Jimmy and fold him into her embrace.  All the while staring at Jim with that too-familiar sequence of emotions.  Surprise.  Fear. 
Resignation.
She enveloped Jimmy in the solace only a mother could provide, stroking his back.  Whispering in his ear until his frantic screams slowed to sobs, ebbed to muffled cries, his face buried in her chest.
She glanced from the battered wall to the blood oozing from the knuckles of Jim's right hand.  "What happened?"  Resignation had become exasperation.  Irritation. 
Anger.   
"I...um..."  Jim scratched the back of his neck.  Nudged with his toe the remains of the wooden picture frame at his feet.  "Dad called." 
She would run.  Would take Jimmy and run to her family in Nebraska.  Or West to California, perhaps.  Somewhere.  Anywhere. Anywhere far from Jim.
Purple toe-nails peeked from her sandals.  Didn’t run.  Instead inched closer.  Jim looked up as she reached out, gently squeezed his shoulder.  "It’s okay, Jim."
Ragged holes loomed in the wall behind her.  Jim pressed his lips so tightly they hurt.  Jimmy finally dared a glance from his mother’s embrace, tiny dark eyes lingering on his father.  Eyes full of terror.
Terror and something more, something Jim knew from both sides of the eyes.  The shock of being betrayed.  Betrayed by the person they’d relied upon.  The person that protected them.  That they’d thought loved them.
Jim had held out his arms, a peace offering.
Jimmy responded by twisting and burying himself in his mother’s arms.  Trying to push himself as far from Jim as possible. 
All those bedtime stories, snuggled on the couch, reading Go Dog Go or Papa Get the Moon for Me, Jimmy burrowed between the two of them, drifting toward sleep.  All those early morning walks, her hand in his, Jimmy tucked in Jim's arms, pointing, excited, as they watched a Great Horned Owl glide away on silent wings.   Those Sunday mornings, twisted in the blankets together, Jimmy playing with his stuffed squirrel on his mother's belly while she dozed. 
All of it.
Gone.
Jim had taken a long, deep breath.  Shaken his head and closed his eyes. 
And then he’d run.
Out the door and across the lawn. Into his pick-up, revving the engine before escaping in a peal of worn tires.
He'd driven almost without seeing, without registering the signs and streets, rounding tight corners in wild swings, flying through intersections, oblivious to the squeal of brakes and chorus of horn blasts around him. Accelerating.  Pounding the steering wheel with the palm of his left hand. Chased by one question.
What if she hadn't come home at that moment?
He'd fled Boulder, headed west up the narrow canyon that twisted and turned, emerging into the bright vista of snow-capped peaks and the scattered, eclectic houses of Nederland, nestled in the bosom of the Rockies. 
He couldn't stop.  Images of Jimmy’s expression constricted his breath. Pushed him onward and upward, ever higher.  He left Nederland behind, pavement becoming gravel, becoming packed earth, becoming two faded ruts spanning a mountain meadow.
He'd finally slowed to a stop amid these scattered remains of an old, abandoned mine, the ruts disappearing into a small pond that had formed between skeletal buildings, pristine water reflecting gray rocks and crystalline skies.  He'd climbed from the cab, leaned against the front grill of the truck.
And had finally exhaled.
 
He'd discovered this place as a child, perhaps ten, while hiking with his father.  Bright sun and steady breeze as they'd crossed the open meadow, awe-struck at the beauty of the flowers.  He'd ask his father the name of each.  His father had known the easy ones like Indian Paintbrush or Alpine Buttercup.  The rest he'd made up, names like Indian Toilet Paper for the one with the wide leaves (that Jim had later learned was Broadleaf Arnica), or Elf Cap, or Yellow-Headed-Kid-That-Asks- Too-Many-Questions. 
 His father would hoist him onto the massive rock poking through the meadow grass.  They'd perch on the edge, feet dangling, and gaze across the lake toward the jagged peaks, sun warm on their backs. Talk about how his mother really was proud of his growing skill on the guitar, despite her seeming indifference.  How his father certainly was.  Or about Jim being bullied at school, a classmate taunting him for wearing cheap jeans and generic sneakers. 
His father would explain that when people hurt him, whether it be through deliberate taunts or simply misplaced words, he shouldn’t get angry.  He shouldn’t judge them.  He should try instead to see to the world through their eyes.  Understand where they came from.  Teaching moments, his father trying to mold Jim.  Shape him.
Jim absently traced the scar across his abdomen through the thin cotton of his shirt.  Snorted.  Look what became of that!
He found another pebble at his feet.  Tossed it further than the first, directly into the center of the pond.  The water was definitely deep enough. He gave the shimmering surface a final glance before climbing back into his truck. Pounding the steering wheel, he let his head fall back, released a long, stuttering sigh.  The sun beat down on the cab, bathed it in rays pure and unadulterated in the high altitude.  If only he could stay here.  Enveloped in the warm cocoon.  No past.  No present.  No future.  Eyes closed in an extended blink.
He'd always envisioned bringing Jimmy up to this mountain sanctuary someday.  A future Jimmy, Jim's vision of what a ten year old Jimmy might be.  Perhaps as quiet and introspective as Jim had been as a child.  An old soul, constantly watching the world. Perhaps they’d share a teaching moment of their own.
Now that was gone.
He jerked his eyes open.  Bit his lip and gunned the engine.  With a final glance over his shoulder, he jammed the truck into gear, stamped on the accelerator.  The truck sprang forward, hurling itself over the lip of gravel into the icy water.
Water seeped through the vents, slowly at first, as he sat, hands on the wheel, resolute.  Having reached the destination he’d always suspected all his path’s lead.
When the water reached his knees, he pulled his feet onto the seat, the cold more painful than he’d anticipated.  The water rose higher.  To his waist.  So cold.  Agonizingly cold. 
He closed his eyes, squeezed the wheel tighter.  Colors crossed his vision, blue and arctic white as the water rose to his chest. The colors twisted, faded, replaced by a vision of a young boy...lying in bed at night...Stars Wars pajamas...sounds of crickets and whispering leaves...sleep somewhere distant... alone...aware of the darkness and the isolation...that boy becoming a young man...carrying that darkness and isolation with him.
Every.
Single.
Day.
Jim opened his eyes with a start.
He sprang to action, struggling with the seatbelt, sluggish, hands numb, slipping and floundering. Finally unstrapped, he pushed with his shoulder at the door, unsuccessful, the weight of the water too much.
He tried to lower the window. Electronic. No chance.
He pounded his fists on the window as the water outside rose to the top of the glass, to the narrow gap he'd left for fresh air. It rushed in with an artic embrace that forced him to the passenger seat, to spin sideways, kicking at the window with frantic, hard blasts.
Nothing.
The water reached mid chest, the cold making thoughts sluggish. Ponderous. What had been ache now fading to numb. Almost comfortable. He gave a half-hearted push on the door again. Rose to press his head against the ceiling, the tiny pocket of remaining air.
The water reached his mouth.
His eyes.
His lungs ached for breath. Unable to restrain them, he gasped, sucking in frigid water which seared like fire in his chest. He closed his eyes, darkness already creeping in the corners.
And then he relaxed.  Let go. Thought of Jimmy as all went black.
And opened his eyes to white.
  
CHAPTER TWO
 White?
Not the effervescent alabaster of the afterlife.  Nor the florescent scream of sterile hospital lighting.  He'd opened his eyes to the dirty off-white of a ceiling dotted with faded stains of some long past leaky pipe. 
His bedroom ceiling.
He bolted from the bed, gasping, the sear of frigid water still in his lungs.   
But…nothing but cool night air filled them.  He held his hands out, turning them over, staring, as if they didn't belong to him.  As if his entire body didn't belong to him. 
He was supposed to be… at the bottom of a pond?  A slow descent into the abyss…
A nightmare?
Impossible. He'd had plenty of nightmares.  He’d far too often woken with a start, vivid images already fading, his brain quickly separating reality from the residual haze of fantasy.
This felt nothing like that.
Cassandra sighed in her sleep, rolled to face him, eyes fluttering but closed.  Her chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, interrupted only by the slightest of murmurs before returning to the slow cadence of deep sleep.  Something seemed off…the shadows of her cheeks starker, the lines of bone more prominent…Jim closed his eyes, focused on only his breath, his heartbeat.  Forced calm upon them.
Once normal breath returned, he peeked through a tentative squint, found the lines he’d expected, the previous hard edge only a trick of the light, a product of a confused mind and eyes not yet adjusted.  He reached out, hand hovering over the thin swath of her exposed flesh, a pale shoulder gleaming in the darkness, the fair skin of a redhead, almost glowing in the gray shades of dawn, soft light and soft curves. 
Relaxing, he rested his hand fully upon her, palm flat, maximizing contact.  And was rewarded by an enveloping warmth, starting at his fingertips, expanding up his arm, washing up and over him, driving away the grip of his nightmare, filling him with both exultation and a desperate longing, as if he hadn't experienced her warmth in so long it had become a faint memory, more a fuzzy ideal of what it could have been.  As if they hadn't just spent the last eighteen months bound together, lives interlaced and interwoven, fully wrapped around Jimmy.
He stood in the quiet dark, arm extended, reveling in that touch.  Never wanting it to stop.
"Daddee?"  From down the hall.  Faint, but with the promise of more.
Jim didn't move. 
"Dad-dee!"  Again.  Less subtle.  Promise fulfilled.
Jim sighed.  Jimmy needed him.
He crept from the bedroom, heading toward the nursery, chill cooling the sweat on his chest and brow.  A yellow, plastic front loader waited under the kitchen table for tiny fingers to return.  A few board books were stacked neatly on the coffee table, The Very Hungry Caterpillar on top.  An anatomy book of Cassandra's, bursting with bookmarks and slips of paper, notes for things Jim could never understand no matter how many times she tried to explain them, sat on the counter beside an empty coffee mug. 
His truck keys beside them.  
He paused, rubbing the stubble on his chin.  He picked up the keys and gave them the slightest of shakes, the faint clink of metal on metal verifying their reality. 
"DAD-DEE!"  Loud and impatient. 
There was no time for deliberation.  No time for wondering the how and why of what must have been a dream.  Had to have been.  He had a child to attend to.
He shuffled to the nursery.  To round cheeks perched on tiny fingers shaking the railing.  Upon spying Jim, Jimmy began rocking back and forth in anticipation and demand.  Reaching up as his father approached. 
 "Hey buddy, it is way too early for you to be up.  I have to go to work soon, and you know momma needs more sleep.  We don't want a grouchy momma."  He scooped Jimmy into his arms, pulled him close, only to have Jimmy twist, reach toward the crib.
 "Qwirl!"
That stuffed squirrel.  The result of an indulgent weak moment, Jimmy and Jim at the nature center at Chitaqua Park after a short hike, an hour of Jimmy in a backpack carrier, non-stop nonsensical chatter in Jim's ears.   Jimmy had spied the stuffed animals piled in a basket in the corner, various members of the local animal kingdom for sale to help fund the tiny nature center.  He'd toddled to it, pointing, repeating "Qwirl, Qwirl."  Adamant.
Fifteen dollars.  Fifteen dollars for a tiny stuffed squirrel.  Jim had been reasonably certain Jimmy would play with it for a day, maybe two, before allowing it to languish with his other animals, his attention returning to his first love, his set of plastic construction trucks
But Jimmy's passion had been too great.  A determination in his big brown eyes as he rocked from foot to foot, pleading, clutching the stuffie to his chest.  A building tantrum clear in his eyes.  As if nothing in the world would make him happier than that damned squirrel. 
Fifteen dollars and two months later, the squirrel still spent every night in Jimmy's crib, was dragged around the house, clutched to Jimmy's chest, day and night.  Had been worth every penny.  Jimmy hugged the squirrel even now as he nestled against his father's chest.  As Jim lowered himself onto the wooden rocker, humming "ABCD" off-key in Jimmy's ear, rocking until the child's breath returned to the slow and steady rhythm of deep sleep. 
Tiny arms clung to the squirrel even as Jim returned him gently to his crib and stood peering in.
#
Jim opened the front door to falling snow.  Gentle, giant flakes coated streets and sidewalks, gathering in protected corners and daffodils. Gray stretched from horizon to horizon, the earth and sky one seamless shade.  The type of day to stay indoors, coffee in hand.  Snuggle with the one you love.
He snorted and tugged his hood tighter, descending the three flights of stairs.  He crossed the courtyard and found his truck on the street.  Hand on the door, again he paused.  Caught by glimpses of his dream, of sinking, water seeping into the cab, stealing his breath.  Vivid. Not hazy.  Not dream-like. 
After climbing in, he ran his finger across the dash.  Firm and real. 
Dreams.  Had to have been dreams.  The only alternative was madness.  He couldn't allow himself that.  He had a wife, a child.  And it was time for work.  Duty called.
Thirty minutes later found him in the lowest level of the chocolate factory, standing at his station, ready to begin his eight hours.  Eight hours of vacuous, mind-numbing work. Eight hours in the bowels of this cavernous building.  Watching lines of chocolate covered granola bars roll by on a series of wide, white conveyors.  As each line of bars crossed the intersection of two conveyors aligned end to end, the ends parted, crisp and quick, allowing a single dark battalion to drop and disappear onto a lower, smaller conveyor.  This conveyor then marched them into wrapping and boxing machinery.  After each quick opening, the large conveyors would snap closed, allowing the next line to cross and continue onward, down the line to the next intersection, the next waiting wrapping machine. 
Row after row of chocolate swallowed by syncopated machine gluttony. 
Armed with a long metal hook, Jim watched for misshapen bars, or bars stuck together, melted, anything that might jam a machine and halt production.  Ready to snag them from the conveyor and toss them into bins behind him.  The Grim Reaper of chocolate.
Eight hours.  Twelve if he got overtime.
Not exactly the life he'd envisioned for himself.  Not that he'd had a plan, or a goal, or any aspirations of any sort, really.  But this certainly wasn't it.
He'd almost quit after only a few days.  But hadn't wanted to disappoint a father that had pulled strings to get him the job, who had pretty much run out of strings to pull and favors to cash in when it came to his son's employment.  The landscaping crew with the city.  Night maintenance at the university.  Come and gone.  The chocolate factory was the last opportunity.  Had to be the last.
And not wanting to disappoint Cassandra. He never wanted to disappoint Cassandra. Couldn't bear the way her brows narrowed, her lips pursed, the flash of red in her cheeks she'd try to swallow with a quick smile, a nod. But he'd see it. Note it. Scribe it in his psyche, let it burrow into his subconscious, spawning something he'd never expected to feel toward her.
Resentment.
He didn't want to resent her.  He wanted to feel nothing but his pure unadulterated admiration and adoration for her, untainted by the flaws of his perceptions.   She deserved nothing less.   When the nightmares would wake him in the hollow of night, trembling and confused, she was the soft shoulder, the soothing words, the fingers stroking his forehead.  Without complaint she bore the brunt of his mood swings, his uncontrollable, irrational irritation at the tiniest things; his missing truck keys or the empty toilet paper roll, angry outbursts that afterward left him guilt-stricken and apologetic.  She would press her lips into a thin smile.  Nod.  Accept and love him anyway.
And even now, with the weight of exhaustion obvious in her eyes, Jimmy's still erratic sleep pattern disturbing their nights, when Jimmy would  knock his yogurt from the table to splash across his shirt, his booster seat, the carpet, for what seemed like the thousandth time that week, she was nothing but patient.  Voice firm but gentle as she told him to be more careful, set about the task of cleaning him up.
All these things must have weighed upon her, but she carried on with steady determination.  Loving and embracing. 
Had he ever seen her lose it?   Had he ever seen her close to the edge, cracks in the ideal?  Had she ever been...
He was torn from his reverie by the sight of a chocolate conglomerate, at least six bars somehow melded together, sure to jam a machine.  Without thinking he lunged, grabbing the mass just as it tumbled into the brief opening between conveyors. 
And the belts slammed shut on his hand.
  CHAPTER THREE
  Jim swung open the front door, greeted by blue eyes partially hidden behind strands of red.  Cassandra, peering up from the kitchen table, school books spread out before her.  Her eyes gave him pause, a flash of sallow ache and shadowed lines that disappeared when he blinked, as if he’d glimpsed a different Cassandra, a superimposed image of her at a different table, managing only a half-hearted smile as he burst through the door, shook snow from his boots…
She cocked her head as if expecting him to say something.  Jim closed his eyes, wanting only one image, one Cassandra.
Cassandra finally blurted out, “Why are you home at this time of day?”
"I, um…”  His words stumbled, still caught by the image, that flash, of Cassandra from somewhere else.  Some “when” else? “I kind of caught my hand in a machine so they sent me home."  He held up his left hand, fingers swollen, colored in bright hues of purple and blue.
"Oh my God!"
"It's okay.  I think, anyway.  But..."  Jim watched wet snow slide from his boots.
"But?"
"I, um, kind of got fired."
No response.
Jim preferred the sight of his boots to the thin line he knew Cassandra's lips had become.  Accompanied by the narrowing of her eyes.  He mumbled, “It was a shitty job anyway."
A long moment of silence.  
"That's not why they fired you, though, is it?"
"What?" 
"Catching your hand."
Jim rubbed his jaw, aware of the obvious scrapes across the knuckles of his right hand and its own growing, purplish hue. 
"I, um ... I got a little frustrated with, um, when I ..."
Cassandra sighed.
"Cassandra, I mean, I was thinking of what if I could never play guitar again?  The one thing that makes me happy.  Because of a stupid clump of chocolate.  Because of job I didn't want it the first place.   A job you encouraged me to take! "
He caught his breath. His words hung between them.  Too late to take back. 
"The one thing, Jim?"
"I didn't mean it that way.  I'm just, you know, frustrated."
He glanced up from the growing puddle around his boots. Her brow creased, but no hard edge occupied her eyes, no thin tight line in her lips. After a long silence, her voice reached out, softer than expected.    "Jim.  It's the third job you've lost this year because of your temper.  Maybe it's time to do something about that?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have a family now.  For Jimmy's sake it's time to -"
"I said I don't want to talk about it!"  He caught himself just shy of shouting. 
Tears coalescing in the corners of her eyes, Cassandra crossed her arms across.  Cheeks reddening.  Jimmy's wail rose from down the hall.  Woken early from his nap.  Jim squeezed his forehead with his 'good' hand. 
"How many times are you ....we can't keep...we...can't..."    She stared at his knuckles. "How's this going to end, Jim?"
Jim tasted blood on his lip.  Shoved his hands in his pockets.
"And what do you think this is doing to Jimmy?"
As if on cue, Jimmy's demand crescendoed, evoking a visceral response, an instinctive ache accompanied by a sense of helplessness.
 Cassandra waited, watching.
Jaw clenched, Jim grabbed his hoodie from the hook by the door and marched out into the cold.  Slammed the door shut behind him. 
#
He parked across the lot, trudged with head down and hands in his pockets through the softening white to the coffee shop, to the warmth and subdued conversations, quiet jazz and the sound of the espresso machine.  The girl at the register pushed a mass of black curls from her eyes, smiling as she took his money.  She didn't seem to notice his trembling, swollen hand.  He mouthed thank you, hugged his coffee to his chest.
 Not many customers at this time of day.  No loiterers.  None of the idle class, wasting time as they waited for life to happen.  No real conversations, only nods of recognition and curt greetings.  For that Jim was thankful.  He escaped the warm confines to the lone outside table and sat, staring into the depths of bitter coffee.  He rubbed the promise of a beard across his chin as his anger ebbed, replaced by taut exhaustion and questions.
Why did he have to react like that? 
An unwarranted outburst.  Always the outburst.  Just like yesterday, with the holes in the wall, the glass strewn carpet, a screaming Jimmy.
But...wait...that wasn’t real, that was…
 "Confusing, isn't it?"
"Wha..?"  Jim jerked, sending splashes of steaming coffee across the table.
A dark figure hovered over his shoulder, staring down with curious intensity.  The Man in the Hat, as everyone called him.  The derelict homeless man who wore full winter garb year round.  Long coat.  Thick wool cap pulled down close to his eyes.  Jim had seen him countless times, watched him pace outside the coffee shop, smoking furiously, arms animate, part of what appeared to be one-sided conversations.  But he'd never seen him even notice the sane, rational world around him, much less speak to anyone. 
 "Excuse me?"
 "The weather."  The man moved to stand in front of Jim, a long shadow silhouetted against the parking lot.  "Sun yesterday.  Snow today. Colorado certainly has its share of surprises." He seemed somehow darker, deeper, than usual. Taller?
Jim exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath.   People usually ignored the Man in The Hat.  Treated him as a fixture, furniture, part of the coffee shop décor.  "I guess."
The man shook off the snow gathering on his shoulders and stepped under the protective overhanging roof, dropping into the other chair.  His black, wool beanie contained all but a few strands of greasy black hair, stuck to his forehead, across thick eyebrows, dark eyes.  He scratched at his beard, untamed, peppered with hints of grey or perhaps food-Jim preferred not to examine too closely.  And the eyes.  Abysses. As if light could not escape them.  Black holes that drew one in, demanded attention and perhaps concern.  The man blew smoke rings and peered into the heavens as if he saw something others did not.  After a deep breath, he leaned toward Jim, eyes narrowed.  "Why are you here?"   
Jim blinked.  Put his coffee down with slow, deliberate precision.  "Excuse me?"
The man pointed a long finger.  His eyes darted frantically, as if unable to contain their own energy. "This isn't your life!"
Pushing his chair back with the slow scrape of metal on concrete, Jim rose, fear rising with him.  The man was large.  And obviously unglued.  "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"There will certainly be a lot of untangling to do."  The man replied with a subtle nod, his voice smooth, almost reassuring, as if the previous frantic energy had never existed.  "Sometimes the truth is too large to swallow whole.  We'll have to nibble on the edges."
"Um...okay then."  Jim turned and stepped off the curb, headed toward his truck. 
"Forgive and forget?”  A wild shout, fever pitched, verging on cracking.  “You can only choose one!"  His screeched words echoed across the empty lot. 
Jim broke into a brisk walk, not quite scared but not quite calm. How did a man end up like that?  Living in his own world and rambling to himself.  And why had he picked today to start screaming his nonsense to strangers?   
#
Jim wouldn't go home.  Couldn't.  Couldn't return to an apartment full of expectations.  People needing things from him that he wasn't sure he was capable of providing.  To a life he’d never asked for, had in fact been vehemently against.
So he hunkered down in a basement bar, wallowing in confusion and cheap beer.  Followed by a bottle of Yukon and isolated deliberation, walking alone in an evening hollowed into night.  More wallowing.  More ruminations that yielded only more questions.  Answers nowhere in the night sky.
Eventually he found himself in a deserted North Boulder park, slouched on a picnic table, marginally protected by a pavilion roof.  Wafts of white drifted across his boots, cool fingers of winter refusing to let go, refusing to be pushed out by spring, the birth of a new season.  He kicked the snow from his feet, took another long slug from the brown-bagged bottle. 
Jesus.  Here he sat, middle of the night, drinking alone in the park like some sort of crazy, homeless wino.  Another swallow of sallow whiskey, another sigh.  It would be so easy to stay out here forever.   Or tuck the bottle under his arm and walk away, never to be heard from again.
But his path had already been set. 
With whiskey burning his stomach he rose and abandoned the half empty bottle on the table, trudged through the wet snow toward home. Not far, just a few blocks of cold, wet penance.  Clinging to the railing, he pulled himself up the three flights of snow-covered stairs toward their door.  Drunker than he'd realized.
Their door hung open.  At this time of night?
He rushed in, bouncing off the doorjamb and entry walls, eyes and ears straining, seeking anything out of place or unusual.  Nothing.  Only quiet darkness.  Books on the table.  Toys on the floor.
Perhaps the door hadn’t been latched properly, somehow swung open in the wind.  Which would be unlike Cassandra, normally one who paid close attention to detail.  Belching stale whiskey, he relaxed, placed a hand on the wall, caught his breath and bearing before stepping into the nursery. Held himself upright with a firm grip on the railing of the crib.  Jimmy slept, belly down, bottom up in the way only a baby can.  That damned stuffed squirrel under one protective arm.
An image emerged, peeked from the folds of memory.  Jimmy in his arms.  Peering up.  With fear in his eyes. Fear and something else.  Jim shook his head, swallowed bile.  Leaning on the walls, he stumbled his way to the bedroom, shouldered open the door.  Light from the hall flung across the carpet, across the bureau, across the nightstand.  Across Cassandra sprawled upon the bed.
Red hair splayed, wild across the pillow.  Arms wide, pale skin against blue bed sheets.
Knife in her chest.