Dad will come home in the middle of the night, any time now, while you and Sam are lying in your beds, Sam snoring and you staring at the ceiling; Dad will come home. The car will roll into the parking lot with its familiar low grumble, and there'll be a moment between the stilling of the engine and the creaking of the door; maybe he'll open the trunk too and get his duffle. You'll strain to hear his footsteps on the concrete of the parking lot; then he'll slide his keys into the lock and the motel door will open with a faint click and Dad will turn on the light in the kitchen which, through the cracks, will shine into the bedroom. A glow will fill the night and when Dad will poke his head in to check on you, you'll be smiling, and he'll smile back, and maybe he'll come over and sit by your bedside for a moment, and all these shadows creeping past your window will retreat.
Dad will be here. He'll come through the forest with his smoking gun, and he'll be calling your name and you'll be answering; you'll call back through the rain and the void of the trees; you'll be able to call, to make noise, because Dad will have killed the monster by then. It's about to happen any moment, the sound of the gunshot reverberating through the valley and Dad turning his footsteps back to where you got hit. Fuck, you were sloppy, you should have seen it coming; when Dad will come round this group of trees, or around that rock, or jump down over there to where the moss grows in thick patches - it won't be long now - he'll check you over immediately and he'll know straight away what's wrong. He'll be mad, and there'll be black blood on him because monsters got a messy way of dying, exploding all over you; and when he'll kneel down next to you to get a good look at that messed up leg, or when he'll help you up and push you back to the car, or at the very least later, when he'll be stitching you up at the house, that's when you'll get your blood on him too.
Dad will talk to you again eventually; sooner or later he'll have to say something that isn't an order or a reprimand; sooner or later he'll stop snarling at you despite his grief. Maybe it'll happen at a diner in Texas - he's always liked the sun there - or on the long road across Nebraska where the wind is blowing across the plains and when he'll get out of his truck at a gas station, he'll have stopped grinding his teeth. He'll no longer drink and drive and fight in silence, and it's not that you expect pity from the man, but he'll have to actually see you again some time. Maybe at a roadhouse in Alabama where you'll be winning a little too much at pool, where some truckers will push you into a corner, not knowing how to express what they want except with their fists, where maybe Dad will jump in like he used to and steer you away by your neck, or maybe he'll throw you a long look as you'll let yourself be crowded and then turn his back; whatever follows will be alright with you. Or maybe it'll happen at a motel in Maine where the rain will be beating against roof and walls and Dad will be filling himself up to the point of mercy. He'll be needing your help to make it across the room and when he'll stumble, he'll drag you down with him onto the unmade bed, and as you'll make to get up, he'll be clutching your shoulder; you will keep very still while he'll trace some hidden memory across your face, in the sick shine of the overhead light; maybe you'll be forgiven then.
He'll call you. He'll be finishing up his job and call. He knows his game; he knows what he's doing, and if he isn't answering his phone, then he's gotta have a reason. Soon enough, though, he'll contact you, maybe tomorrow when you're out getting your coffee in the morning, or at night when you're working because what the hell else are you supposed to do, what else do you know other than your job? (The bartender will drink with you and claim she knows something but right now's not a good time to talk, already scribbling her phone number on a piece of paper; she'll be taking her top off later and smiling as you'll unhook her bra without looking, she'll glide her soft hands, long fingers, up the back of your neck and she'll moan gently on her outbreath, close to your ear, and you won't cling, but she'll like it when you keep your hands on her, when you hold on; all the while your phone will be lying on the bedside table). Dad will phone you and tell you a time and place and you'll turn the nose of the car any direction, fast as the wind, you'll be flying wherever he wants you to go, some motel or roadhouse or abandoned flat, the walls covered with newspaper clippings, and he'll look up from his journal when you step in and say something like, "It's good to see you," or maybe just "I got a job for you," a job which you'll be happy to take. But it's possible that when you get there, you'll find his truck, his journal, the clippings, but not him; maybe he's not calling because it's too late, because you should have found him already, because it's your job to back him up. You drink your coffee, you do your work, you hold on, but shadows keep creeping on your heels. Another call goes to voicemail. You turn the car to California.