Jeremy Parker

It was the first day I could leave the brownstone after a second nor’easter had shit another foot and half of snow all over Massachusetts. There was an uptick in the temperature in the days between the storms, so the first batch of static whiteness had achieved a polished glaze just before the sequel hit. I’d been stuck in the house all week—missed a meeting with my editor down in New York and had to reschedule two workshops at Emerson. I was lacing up my boots to head for groceries when my phone announced a call from an Indiana area code. My father’d been dead since I was fifteen, so there was only one possibility.