Bill didn't need another drink. He hadn't needed another drink for months. Dee Dee's death and the ensuing financial collapse that followed had led him to the liquor store. And that's where he had stayed.
Anger's a difficult emotion, and Bill's anger was distilled, fermented and preserved. It had grown with age and with every sip of bourbon that his body suffered only offered kindling. He stared at the TV, interspersing between vacation videos of him and Dee and Jack racing around the stage promsing unyielding miracles.
"Miracles!", shouted Jack.
"Miracles!", shouted Bill, spit flying from his rabid mouth, tossing an ice cube at the screen and watching it smash. He was sorry he had missed Jack that time and threw another one.
This was his daily routine. The phone had been cut off, not out of neglect, but rather apathy. Mail had piled up outside so high that the mail carrier never further bothered to visit. Bill had no time nor words for anyone else. Like a geolithic moth, Bill was trapped in an amber world with the ghost of Dee Dee and her murderer, Reverend Jack.
Bill scrambled for the package. Oh. He had saved it. He had not saved much of hers. Most of her clothes, knick knacks, pretty much all of her belongings had been tossed outside into a heap where they now still lay on the back lawn the day that she had died. But he had saved the package.
He had made her a promise. She had made him tell her that he would not. A crack in the amber and Bill was staring at the envelope in his hand. There was an address.
Grabbing what he needed, throwing them into a knapsack, Bill started up his pickup. He was going to Fort Worth, Texas.