Chase Shustack

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We had 22 people drawn up in the lottery.

That was from here alone.

I don't know how many there were in the state, but we had 22.

We knew about a quarter of them.

Men, women, kids.

There was that Newberry kid, and he was about one and a half, so it counted still.

I almost couldn't believe what he was telling me.

The whole idea sounded completely absurd.

My father, the man who never genuinely lied to me throughout my entire life, was sitting here and telling me that he and my family participated in some kind of secret national human sacrifice.

I had never known my father to lie, and I had never known him to start crying the way he did.

My father let out a throaty sob, the kind that boils up in your throat and comes out as a single frog-like gurgle.

At that, my father completely broke down.

He put his head in his hands and he cried.

I had only seen my father cry a handful of times throughout my life up until this point.

Mainly at funerals, where it was permitted to let out a few tears and get yourself choked up.

This was different.

This was complete, unrestrained emotion he was showing.