The autumn wind swept through the oaks surrounding the Blackwood estate, scattering leaves across five manicured acres like coins carelessly tossed. The house, with its colonial columns, wide windows, and a three-car garage, seemed like the perfect picture of suburban life—well-ordered and controlled. From the outside, it looked like everything was in place.
Inside the garage, under the hood of a worn 2004 Ford F-150, I appeared to be the opposite.
My hands were stained with grease. A faded gray hoodie hung loosely on my frame, one elbow torn. The truck, a rusty workhorse most would have abandoned long ago, was something I knew inside and out. I tightened a belt, moving slowly, careful of my leg where a shard of metal had once left its mark.
To my sister-in-law, Sarah, I was John Blackwood: unemployed, aimless, and a drain on my wife, Emily, who carried all the weight.
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