The bus pulls away. You watch the dust settle. It is a dry, choking dust. It tastes like iron and old sweat. You stand on the cracked asphalt. The sun is high. It is a white, relentless sun. You feel it on your neck. It burns.

You are a soldier. Or you were. The uniform is in a bag in the car. You are just a man now. A man in a flannel shirt. The shirt is too big. It swallows your hands.

Your father is in the house. He is not well. He is never well. He is a small, trembling thing inside the walls. You go inside. The floorboards creak. They scream under your weight. The air is thick. It smells of stale tea and medicine.

He is in the chair. The old wingback chair. The fabric is worn thin. He looks at you. His eyes are clouded. They are milky and deep. He does not smile. He does not frown. He just looks.

"Sit," he says. His voice is a whisper. It is the sound of dry leaves.

You sit. The wooden chair groans. You are heavy with guilt. You are heavy with the road. You left him here. Again.

"Did you eat?" he asks.

"Yes," you lie. You are hungry. Your stomach is a hollow drum. You have not eaten since yesterday. The food in the pantry is moldy. You cannot afford the store. You cannot afford much.

He reaches for the table. His hand shakes. He holds a small jar. It is glass. It is golden. Inside, there is a thick, amber liquid. It glows. It looks like trapped sunlight.

"Take this," he says.

You do not move.

"Take it."

You reach out. Your fingers brush the glass. It is warm. The warmth surprises you. The house is cold. The jar is warm.

"What is it?" you ask.

"Medicine," he says. "For the pain."

You take it. The weight is significant. It feels dense. It feels real. It is the only real thing in the room.

"Drink it," he says. "It will help."

You look at the jar. You think of the hospital. The white coats. The bills. You think of the debt. The debt is a snake. It wraps around your throat. It tightens.

"I can't afford the doctor," you say.

He does not hear you. He looks at the jar. He looks at you.

"Drink it," he repeats. "Trust me."

You uncork the jar. The smell hits you. It is sweet. It is cloying. It smells like honey and rot. It smells like the earth after rain.

You pour a little into a spoon. It is thick. It moves slowly. You put it in your mouth.

It is bitter. It is sharp. It burns your tongue. You swallow. The pain is immediate. It spreads. It is in your chest. It is in your lungs. It is a fire.

You cough. You spit. The liquid is on the floor. It stains the wood.

"Bad?" he asks.

"Bad," you say.

He nods. He takes the jar back. He corks it. He puts it in his pocket.

"Keep it for later," he says. "When it hurts more."

You stare at him. The room is silent. The clock ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick.

You leave. You drive the car. The engine is loud. The road is straight. You go to the store. You buy bread. You buy milk. You buy nothing else. You cannot.

You eat the bread. It is stale. You drink the milk. It is cold. You do not think of the jar. You do not think of the taste.

You go back home. Your father is asleep. He is in the chair. His head is back. His mouth is open.

You look at the pocket. The jar is gone.

You do not sleep. You sit by the window. The moon is out. It is a pale disc. It watches you. You watch it.

The next day, you go to work. You dig ditches. The shovel is heavy. Your hands blister. The sun is higher. It is cruel.

You think of the jar. You think of the taste. You think of your father. Why did he give it to you? Why did he take it back?

You go home at dusk. The sky is purple. It is bruised.

Your father is awake. He is sitting in the chair. He is alert. His eyes are clear. They are sharp.

"Did it help?" he asks.

"I didn't take it," you say. "I only tasted it."

He smiles. It is a thin smile. It does not reach his eyes.

"Good," he says. "It was poison."

You freeze. The word hangs in the air. It is cold. It is sharp.

Poison.

You look at him. He looks at you. He is calm. He is still.

"Poison," he repeats. "But also medicine. Depends on how much you take."

You reach into your pocket. Your hand is empty. You feel the phantom weight.

"Why?" you ask.

He does not answer. He looks at the window. The light is fading. The shadows are long.

"Go," he says.

You go. You drive away. You do not stop. You do not sleep. You drive until the gas runs out. You sit in the car. The engine ticks. The night is cold.

You think about the jar. You think about the choice. You could have kept it. You could have drunk it all. You could have ended it. You could have ended him.

You did not.

You drive back. The road is dark. The headlights cut through the black.

You go home. The house is dark. You go in. The floorboards creak.

Your father is in the chair. He is alive. He is breathing.

You sit. You do not speak. He does not speak.

The silence is loud. It is heavy. It presses on your chest.

You think of the taste. Bitter. Sharp. Burning.

You think of the golden color. The trapped sunlight.

You realize you are hungry. You are so hungry.

You get up. You go to the kitchen. You open the cupboard. It is empty.

You go to the fridge. It is empty.

You go to the pantry. It is empty.

You are poor. You are so poor.

You go back to the chair. You sit. You watch your father.

He is sleeping. His face is peaceful. He looks young. He looks innocent.

You hate him. You love him. You want to kill him. You want to save him.

The feeling is a knot. It is tight. It is in your stomach.

You think of the jar. It is in his pocket. You can see it. It glows faintly in the dark. It is a golden eye. It watches you.

You stand up. You walk to the chair. You reach for the jar.

Your hand stops. You are afraid.

If you take it, you are the killer. If you leave it, you are the fool.

You leave it.

You go to the door. You open it. The night air hits you. It is cold. It is clean.

You step out. You close the door. The lock clicks. It is a small sound. It is final.

You walk down the street. The town is asleep. The windows are dark. The streetlights are on. They are orange. They are warm.

You walk. You do not stop. You do not look back.

You are a soldier. You have left your post. You have abandoned your charge.

You are free.

You are broken.

You walk until the town is behind you. You walk until the road is empty. You walk until your legs give out.

You fall to your knees. The grass is wet. It is cold. It is real.

You cry. You do not wipe your face. The tears mix with the mud.

You think of the golden oath. You think of the promise. You think of the love.

It was a lie. It was a trap. It was a gift.

You do not know. You will never know.

The sun rises. It is a new day. It is a white day. It is a bright day.

You stand up. Your knees hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul hurts.

You walk back. You walk to the house. You walk to the door.

You do not knock. You do not enter. You stand in the yard. You look at the house.

It is small. It is old. It is yours.

You turn away. You walk to your car. You get in. You start the engine.

You drive away. You do not look in the mirror.

You drive to the city. You find a job. You dig ditches. You build walls. You break ground.

You work hard. You eat well. You sleep soundly.

You do not think of the jar. You do not think of the taste.

Years pass. The years are fast. They are a river. They carry you.

You are old now. Your hair is gray. Your face is lined. Your hands are rough.

You are rich. You have money. You have time.

You go back. The town is smaller. The houses are different. The people are different.

The house is gone. The lot is empty. The weeds are high.

You stand in the yard. The dust is dry. It is choking. It tastes like iron and old sweat.

You remember the jar. You remember the golden light.

You remember your father. You remember his eyes.

You remember the choice.

You did not kill him. You did not save him.

You let him be.

You let yourself be.

You are alone. You are free.

You are empty.

You turn away. You walk to your car. You get in.

You drive away. You do not look back.

The road is straight. The sun is high. It is a white, relentless sun.

It burns.