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The Bronco must drive itself, because I don’t remember anything between the police station and cutting the engine in the parking lot. Memory told me it was a grand vista with valleys as deep as the mountains were high, but the harsh lens of reality reveals that image to be a lie. It’s nothing more than a slab of asphalt and a glorified ditch.

A motorcycle rumbles up beside me and parks; a man takes off his helmet, flicks me a wave and wanders to the tree line where he takes a piss before getting back on his bike and riding away.

With a shaky breath, I open the folder, my hands trembling as I dump the contents—a file folder and two cassette tapes—onto the passenger seat.

I pick up the cassette with875 Valley Drivescribbled on the lines in the front into the tape deck and voices start instantly.

Dispatcher:9-1-1 What is your emergency?

Caller:It’s my friend, he’s breaking into a house. 875 Valley Drive in Ledger.

I suck in a sharp breath, recognizing a young Ford’s voice instantly.

Dispatcher: Is he armed?

Ford:I don’t know. I don’t know! I tried to talk him out of it, I told him not to.

Dispatcher:Is there anyone else in the house?

Ford:I don’t know—I don’t think so. [voice cracks] Dammit. I don’t want him to go to jail. Can someone come and help him? An officer? Talk to him. I don’t want him to go to jail.

Dispatcher:Sir, please stay calm, I’ve notified the police.

Ford:[sniffs] I think he’s high. I don’t know—I don’t know!

Dispatcher:Sir, can you tell me where you are? And your name.

Ford:Ford. Callahan. I’m in the truck. He’s my best friend. His sister . . . I just want to help him.

Dispatcher:Sir, is his sister in thehouse?

Ford:No. She’s on a trip in the mountains. I—I love her. He can’t go to jail.

Dispatcher:I understand, sir, help is on the way.

The tape clicks to a stop, and a loud silence fills the air as a brand-new truth crushes down on me: Ford called the cops on Zeb. He set every single thing that came next in motion.

I pick up the file, terrified of what’s inside but opening it anyway.

The first page contains a mugshot. Zeb’s. Despite the sudden oppressiveness of gravity pulling down on my shoulders, I smile slightly, dragging my thumb across his features. Same dark hair as mine, but instead of the hazel eyes I got from Glory, he had our dad’s brown. Maybe it’s the ink or the lighting used when they take a mugshot, but they’re lifeless. Maybe that’s the way they were in those last years, and I just never noticed. Never wanted to notice.

He has a faded scar under his right eye, a cluster of four freckles under his left. His lips are as flat as his eyes. He looks like Zeb’s ghost. He was.

I scan the rest of the page, stopping at the bottom line:Bail posted by Archie Watkins.

No matter how many times I read it, the words don’t make sense. I always wondered who bailed my brother out—who had the money or cared enough or both—but Archie? In all his years of morning visits, he never told me. Never brought my brother up once.

I flip the page. Zeb’s death report. Cause of death:heroin overdose.I knew as much. I called the police station after, but the detailswere vague. The officer was short with me. I always assumed it was because Zeb was just another addict, and I was just another family member he didn’t want to deal with.Neighbor or something found him,the officer had said, not bothering to get the police report.Dead when we arrived.

I continue reading.

Zeb Armstrong, age 21, deceased upon officer arrival on April 17, found in his home by friend Ford Callahan.

What?I reread it, nauseated, my stomach twisting as my eyes move faster than I can keep up with.

Callahan returned from college, concerned when he couldn’t reach Armstrong after calling repeatedly and unable to reach immediate family. He called 9-1-1 after finding deceased nonresponsive with a needle in his arm, administered CPR until paramedics arrived.

The rest of the words on the page are a blur. Ford found Zeb. Dead. He pressed into his lifeless chest and breathed into his breathless mouth trying to save him. Emotion clogs my throat. The other tape, scribbled with Zeb’s apartment address, must be the recording of Ford calling 9-1-1 when he found Zeb dead. I can’t listen to it.