The darkness welled inside him and he pounded a fist on the steering wheel. He caught sight of his cell phone on the seat next to him. Picking it up, he held it to his chest. He’d started reading some stuff on the internet, and one of the sites for vets had said to call somebody when you felt like the black hole was about to swallow you up. Who could he call? His mother? No, she’d just get worried. His dad? Nope, his dad would get mad. Maybe Lela. Maybe she’d say she changed her mind, he could come home, she’d help him get through this terrible phase in his life. And right now he was sober, though the car stunk of stale booze; she hated when he called her drunk out of his gourd. He dialed the home phone. “Hello,” a small voice said into the receiver. His heart plummeted. Lela hadn’t answered. He’d gotten his son. But maybe he could still talk to her. “Hey, kiddo. How you doing?” “Okay, Dad.” He scrambled for something to ask the boy. “How was the sleepover last night?”
