Chase Shustack

He slammed the phone back down onto the receiver, and he turned to look at me.

His eyes were red and still wet with heavy, salty tears.

You have to go home, Al.

Who was that?

It was no one.

But you have to go home.

Now.

Dad, I'm not going anywhere until you explain to me what the hell is going on here.

You and Mom call me up and you get all weird and paranoid on me?

Then you want me to leave?

I...

My father cut me off with a deep hug.

He squeezed as tight as he could, like he was trying to protect me from something by shielding me.

His tears ran hot as they dripped down onto my neck.

We'll have to go home, Al, he whispered weakly into my ear.

He pulled away, patted me on the shoulder, and then walked back upstairs without a word.

I would have tried to follow him, yell at him, beg him for an explanation as to what was going on.

Maybe I should have.

But the way he looked at me, that look of exhaustion and fear that he gave me before he climbed back up those stairs, told me that it wouldn't be worth it.

I couldn't go up and shake my parents, my own mother and father, down for information like some kind of thug.