A little over a year ago, my twin brother Ben hanged himself.
Immediately after hearing the news, I frantically stuffed a week’s worth of clothes in a grocery bag and hopped into the passenger seat of my girlfriend’s car. It was July 22, 2017. A vicious Oxford, Mississippi sun had been tanning the car’s leather seats. My ass burned but I hardly noticed. My girlfriend drove. There was no way I could have driven myself. My panicked hands shook so violently I looked as if I had developed Parkinson’s. Surely, I would have jerked the steering wheel and flipped her car into a ditch. Wouldn’t that be great, I thought. I’m on the way home to see my dead twin brother and then I die, too. At the same time, the thought of dying didn’t seem so bad.
Blurred images of trees swept by the road’s shoulder as the car barreled southbound . . .