On the afternoon of Thursday, June 18, I answered a knock on our front door. As expected, it was an appliance repairman. Our LG dishwasher had been giving us fits, and the first repair guy turned out to be quite incompetent, so my wife Shirly had found another company that seemed reputable.
When I opened the door, the fellow looked strangely familiar. Entirely too familiar. No, no chance – that couldn’t be him.
He entered, putting on the facemask that we had asked him to wear. “What’s your name, sir?” the young man asked.
He shot me a look. “You have brothers?”
He slowly took off his mask. A singular blend of sorrow, guilt and regret flashed across his face.
“Um, yeah…Chris was my friend.”
It was him. Travis Webster. Like my youngest brother Chris, a hardcore heroin addict. According to at least two sources – one of which was Erik, another brother and Chris’s longtime roommate – Travis was directly responsible for Chris’s relapse and death.
It also happened to be the fourth anniversary of Chris’s passing.