December 1985
Dean sits huddled on his chair, knees drawn up to his chest. Somber eyes dart to and fro, following his father's hands as they fly over the parts, fanned out on the kitchen table.
As he watches, the disjointed fragments miraculously arrange themselves into gleaming handguns and rifles, the small breakfast nook echoing with the rhythmic clicking of metal on metal. He knows not to touch anything, just watches, quietly memorizing the sounds and the fluid movements like a mantra.
Then he realizes Dad is looking at him: watching him watching, with a small, guarded smile.
Tentatively, he smiles back.