The humidifier leaks. He rubs his hands with alcohol. Medications lay on a table. Sounds of semis going up and down Highway 41.

It’s dark outside. A lamp, lets off little light by his La-Z-Boy. Flowers in a vase.

She wakes up and walks down the hall. Pictures hang on the walls. Parents, grandparents, and kids they had, now gone.

Sitting on the sofa, she lights a cigarette and blows out the match. He sits in silence. Rocks back and forth. Smoke is blown into the air.

Do you remember Robby? She asks. He nods his head. That boy was destined for trouble. She laughs. So was that boy, Jimmy. Couldn’t keep a hold on them. Seems they were always getting into trouble. Her husband turns his face away. Continues rocking.

No wonder they’re dead, she says. It was only a matter of time. He nods quietly. Moans a bit.

They were your responsibility, she tells him. Boys should listen to their fathers. You never demanded they do so.

The old man gets up from his chair and looks at an empty gun cabinet that used to be filled with shotguns. He just looks in the glass at himself.

You want eggs? She asks. He shakes his head and walks out to the back porch. Birds flying south. Deer running in the woods. The sounds of shotguns going off.

He just stands there. His wife joins him. What day is it? He asks.

Thanksgiving.