I couldn't sleep.

I lay in bed for a long time among my father's belongings, staring up at the ceiling. Eventually, I drifted into a brief, shallow sleep. Awful images shot through my brain like fever dreams. At some point, I turned the television on. I stared unseeingly at the screen, blurry from the steady stream of angry, frustrated tears.

I finally rose at dawn and stumbled into the shower, tried to make myself presentable. A small part of me feared that Woody might have taken the first flight out of Phoenix. I wouldn't have blamed him if he did, but he hadn't, of course, and he greeted me as if nothing had happened when I knocked meekly at his door.

We crossed the parking lot to the Waffle House next door for breakfast. I'd never been to one, but Woody swore by them. The short order cooks all looked as if they were on work furlough from the local prison.

The waitress talked me into getting something called "Scattered All the Way," which turned out to be a mound of greasy hashbrowns topped with onions, tomatoes, ham, mushrooms, chili, and jalapenos, all swimming in a congealed orange substance that passed for cheese sauce.

"Some breakfast, huh?" Woody was wolfing his down with glee.

"Yeah. I think I can actually hear my arteries hardening." I poked at it distastefully with my fork. I hadn't eaten much in 24 hours, but I just wasn't hungry. "Have you had a chance to call the Glendale P.D. yet?"

He paused to take a big forkful and then spoke. "Uh, yeah. No news yet. I'll try again later."

It was just enough of a pause that I knew he was lying. I moved my plate to the side and leaned forward.

"What did the police say?" He continued to push the food around on the plate as if he hadn't heard. "Come on, Woody, what did they say?"

He took a deep breath and set the fork down. "The guy who hit your father had a record. Ten months ago he lost his license for a year on a DUI."

"How is it that he was driving on a suspended license?"

Woody shrugged helplessly. "You can take away the license, but you can't stop them from driving."

Silly me. Thinking that someone might actually abide by the law. "Well, then he should have been thrown in jail ten months ago."

"He only had the DUI. No property damage, no personal injury. He'd never gotten into so much as a fender bender before."

"So...let me see if I can follow your logic. This guy has to actually kill someone before the law can do anything to stop him from killing someone. That makes sense. A little late, don't you think?"

"We both know the law only punishes you for what you've done and not for what you might do."

There was a pause while I let the news seep in. "So, what happens now?"

"They said he'll probably plead to vehicular manslaughter. So, the good news is that you won't have to endure a trial." He was trying so hard to be upbeat, but I found myself inching closer to a state of unbridled rage.

"How much time will he get?"

"I don't know. My best guess is three to five years."

The words rang in my ears, and I felt as if I had been physically struck. Three to five years. It wasn't enough that he had been taken. Cruelty had been heaped upon cruelty. "That's it? That's what my father's life is worth? Three to five years?"

"I know this is upsetting. I do. Believe me, Jordan. I felt the same way when my father died. And I'm angry about this, too." His voice cracked. He took a long pause before speaking again. "The only thing that gets me through things like this is trusting that it all happens for a reason. It all works out the way it's supposed to."

"And I'm just supposed to buy into that?"

"That's what faith is," he said in a small voice.

"Sorry." I rose from the table and threw down my share of the bill. "I'm fresh out."

I walked out of the restaurant, knowing I didn't dare look back at him without losing my barely maintained composure.

XXXXXXXXX

I headed up to my room and pulled out the phone book.

As long as I kept busy, I didn't have to think. I didn't have to think about my father being taken too early, or having the last link to my childhood, the last link to my mother severed. I didn't have to think about the words that would remain forever unspoken between us, the damage that would go unrepaired.

I called several funeral homes to arrange my father's cremation, reaching a series of unctuous morticians who spoke in solemn yet cheerful tones about selling me cremation plans so elaborate they'd make a Viking blush.

I finally spoke to a woman who seemed to understand that I merely wanted simplicity and speed. Her voice was warm and maternal, and I liked her immediately. I made arrangements with her.

I didn't see Woody for most of the day. I admired his faith, I really did, but it seemed foreign to me. The last of my reserves had finally been tapped out.

It was dinner time when he knocked.

"Hi," he said uneasily.

"Hi." My voice was rough. We stood there awkwardly for a moment before I stepped aside and let him in.

I turned to him then. I don't know why it happened...maybe it was lack of sleep and no more sustenance in the past 24 hours than a vending machine cruller. Maybe it was seeing Woody there trying to be a rock when he, himself, was so obviously hurting. Maybe it was that I had been too consumed with anger to really mourn yet.

I opened my mouth to speak, to tell him cheerfully what I had accomplished that day. Instead, I looked into his pained eyes and began to sob with complete and utter abandon. My whole frame shook with the raw tears of fresh grief, and I felt my knees buckle.

Woody was there; he caught me on the way down and pulled me into his arms. We stood for a moment as he rocked gently back and forth. He guided me to the bed, and I curled up there.

It must have been an hour I lay there as my tears gradually subsided. He was beside me the entire time, gently stroking my hair and whispering soft and soothing words.