Randall’s face filled half the frame.
He looked healthy.
That was the first terrible thing.
If I had seen this video without the records, without the scans and dates and hospital wristband, I would never have known. He was still broad across the shoulders. His hair was still silver and thick. Only his eyes looked wrong.
He kept looking toward the house.
For almost a minute he said nothing.
Then he whispered, “Go.”
He was talking to himself.
“Just go.”
He gripped the steering wheel.
Did not move.
His face collapsed.
Not gracefully.
Not the dignified tear I had imagined once or twice during the worst months, when anger made me picture him regretting me somewhere. Randall bent forward until his forehead hit the wheel and covered his mouth with one hand as if he were afraid I might hear him from inside the house.
The sound he made filled the storage unit.
