Three hundred days since the Incident. Eighteen hours in a shaky helicopter ride. A day and a half on the road. We’ve been picking our way through the rubble of buildings for the past week now. We’re here to bury the dead, release the ghosts.

The one letting all the warm air out and the cold air in, that's John Brown's brother.

Eric checks the time again. I ask if he needs another beer.

“One more then I'm out.” He gulps down what's left at the bottom of his bottle and slides it away from himself.

I tuck my long hair back up under the Caterpillar baseball hat. They don’t like long hairs around here. I run my hands down my chest, buttoning up one more ivory disc on the red and tan flannel. Anything to help me blend in.

I’m waiting for my friend, Steve, in the smoky mist of what was our favorite bar, Georges. I’ve been worried about him. His wife died. He’s turned into a recluse.

Jackie wanted to drive Emily’s car. It’s almost as old as Emily. It was born the same year mom was diagnosed. It’s rusting away. Crack in the windshield.

I’d always pictured Glenn Danzig shorter. Less corporate, more of a gym gerbil. Not this lanky, caterwauling, frosted-tips douchebag with the Rohypnol smile.

There once was a man named Mad Davy Cudlin...