You are standing in the kitchen. The linoleum is peeling at the corners, lifting up like dead skin. Your sister, Elise, is sitting at the table. She is cutting an apple. The knife is dull. She pushes through the flesh. Juice runs on the wood.

"Sit down, Thomas," she says.

You do not sit. You stand by the stove. The radio is on. It is static. A low, white noise. You turn it up. Then down. It is just the air moving.

"Sit down," she says again.

You sit. The chair creaks. Your hands are in your pockets. Your hands are empty. They have always been empty lately.

"Did you read the file?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Did you understand it?"

"I understand what it says."

"It does not say what you think it says."

You look at her. Her face is pale. The light from the window is gray. It is a Tuesday. It is always a Tuesday now. You feel the weight of the badge in your pocket. It is not there. You feel its ghost. A heavy, cold square against your thigh.

"Elise," you say. "I am tired."

"I know."

"I am tired of the noise."

"I know."

She takes a bite of the apple. She chews slowly. The sound is wet. Loud. You watch her throat move. You want to speak. You want to scream. You do not. You are a soldier. You hold the line.

"The committee met," she says. "They voted."

"And?"

"They voted to transfer you."

"To where?"

"To the archive. The basement."

"That is not a place. That is a hole."

"It is a job, Thomas."

"It is a burial."

She stops chewing. She looks at you. Her eyes are wet. She does not cry. Elise does not cry. She is harder than you. She is the stone in the garden. You are the water that erodes it.

"Is it true?" you ask. "About the case? The one with the boy?"

"Which one?"

"Everyone knows. The one they buried."

"There was no burial."

"There was a grave. I saw it."

"You saw nothing."

"I saw the dirt."

"You saw your own mind, Thomas."

The static on the radio gets louder. It sounds like rain. It sounds like blood in the ears. You close your eyes. You see the boy. He is small. He is wearing a blue coat. The coat is too big for him. It flaps in the wind. You are chasing him. You are running. Your lungs burn. You catch him. You hold him. He is warm. He is alive. Then he is not.

"Elise," you say. "I did it."

"No."

"I did it. I took the money. I took the car. I drove him to the field."

"Stop."

"I am telling you the truth. I am the monster."

"You are my brother."

"I am a coward."

"You are a man."

She reaches across the table. She takes your hand. Her hand is cold. It is dry. It is the hand of a nurse. She has washed it too many times. She is cleaning away something that is not there.

"Listen to me," she says. "The system is broken. You know this. You have known it for years."

"I know."

"You are not the disease, Thomas. You are the symptom."

"I am the rot."

"You are the tree."

The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are strange. You pull your hand away. You stand up. The chair scrapes against the floor. It is a harsh sound. It cuts the silence.

"I have to go," you say.

"Go where?"

"Out. I need air."

"Thomas."

"I have to go."

You walk to the door. The door is wood. It is dark. It is old. You open it. The hallway is narrow. The wallpaper is yellow. It is peeling. It looks like a map of a country that no longer exists. You walk to the front door. You open it.

The cold hits you. It is winter. The snow is falling. It is soft. It is white. It covers everything. It covers the sin. It covers the shame. It covers the truth.

You step out. You stand on the porch. The steps are icy. You look at the yard. The grass is dead. It is brown. It is brittle. In the center of the yard, there is a tree. It is an oak. It is bare. It is twisted. It looks like a hand reaching up. It looks like a skeleton.

You know this tree. You planted it. You were ten years old. Your father was with you. Your father was alive. He was holding a shovel. He was laughing. The earth was black. The sky was blue.

Now your father is in the ground. Now your brother is in the ground. Now you are in the ground.

You walk to the tree. You touch the bark. It is rough. It is gray. It is dead. You run your hand down the trunk. You feel the texture. You feel the age. You feel the life that is gone.

You lean against the tree. You close your eyes. You breathe. The air is sharp. It hurts your lungs. You breathe in. You breathe out.

A car pulls up. The engine dies. The door opens. You do not turn around. You know who it is. You know the weight of the footsteps. You know the smell of the wool coat. It is the Chief.

"Thomas," he says.

You do not answer.

"Thomas."

You turn around. He is standing in the snow. His face is red. His breath is a cloud. He looks tired. He looks old. He looks like you.

"Get in the car," he says.

"No."

"Thomas."

"No."

He steps closer. He is holding a gun. It is small. It is black. It is cold.

"Put it down," you say.

"You are under arrest."

"For what?"

"For obstruction. For perjury. For corruption."

"For being human."

He smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile.

"We have to do this, Thomas. For the department. For the law."

"The law is a lie."

"The law is the only thing we have."

"No. It is the only thing they have. We have nothing."

He raises the gun. His hand is shaking. He is afraid. He is not strong. He is weak. He is like the tree. He is like the snow. He is like the dirt.

"Drop the gun," you say.

"Get in the car."

"I will not go."

He pulls the trigger. The sound is loud. It is sharp. It is final.

You do not fall. You do not feel pain. You feel only a cold spot on your side. A small, dark spot. It is spreading. It is growing. It is taking over.

You look at him. He is crying. He is looking at you with fear. With regret. With pity.

"I am sorry," he says.

You do not answer. You cannot. Your mouth is dry. Your tongue is heavy.

You lean against the tree. The bark is cold. The snow is falling. It is covering you. It is covering him. It is covering the car. It is covering the world.

You think of Elise. You think of the kitchen. You think of the apple. The juice on the wood. The dull knife. The static on the radio.

You think of the boy. The blue coat. The wind.

You are not a monster. You are not a hero. You are a man. You are a symptom. You are the rot. You are the tree.

The cold is deep. It is in your bones. It is in your blood. It is in your soul.

You close your eyes. The snow is white. The sky is gray. The silence is loud.

You are alone.

You are not alone.

The tree is with you. The earth is with you. The memory is with you.

You let go.

The snow keeps falling. It does not stop. It will not stop. It will cover the grave. It will cover the truth. It will cover the lie.

You are gone.

The tree stands.

The snow falls.

The end is quiet. The end is cold. The end is clean.