“You think you can walk right out?” my father said. I did. I went as far as I could from that house, far from that town. I doubt I could have traveled farther had I meant to change my name, to walk right out of the life I was born to, to applause the world insists will make us confident but never does. I trusted from that house to this one, bridges burnt, the roads out, even demons wouldn’t dare, but hell-bent quests are circles: storm right out a son hurt and rebellious and in half a lifetime, in bewilderment, you come home to your own house and your sullen son without the evidence to prove you’re innocent. Some days I want to walk right out, but can’t, won’t, must not leave this house.