In July 1974 in Jefferson City, Missouri, the suburban wooden houses looked tired gray at dusk. The air is hot and humid. Brandon Nicholas sat in the broken wheelchair that had been repaired three times, listening to each hoarse squeak of the wheels. He was in his fifties, and his left leg remained permanently on the island called Guadalcanal after a violent explosion many years ago.
There was a half-cup of coffee on the kitchen stove, already cold. He could no longer remember the last time he spoke to someone for more than three sentences. He never married, and the only woman he ever loved - Stephanie Hull - had been gone for thirty years. He could still recognize the words on the tombstone last year, but when he went back this spring, he felt that the letters were like a flock of scattered birds.
He felt no fear. To him, death was like a door that he knew would close, but he didn't expect it to close so quietly...
Concept: Black skin is his original sin...