TWO DAYS he stayed in his room and kept the door locked. His father knocked hard a few times. Terry didn’t say anything. Clouds through his window were low and gray, full of a storm to the south. He thought of her as a dark shot of birds over a field, a spray of black wings and chatter, all one thing, beating with many hearts. His father knocked again.

Listen.

Go away, Terry said.

His head rocked. He couldn’t sort anything out, not her gone to ash, or the man past the door.

I need you to be away from that door.

You can say whatever you want, his father said.

Leave me the hell alone.

If talking to someone is what you need.

I fucking hear you, now leave.

He didn’t mean for it that way, but the words came a scream. His face jerked a sob; it clenched, hard, and he felt each of his teeth at once when he bit down. He put a hand over his eyes and turned to his lap. He took the policeman knife from his pocket and threw it closed against the door. It broke a notch shoulder high, chipped the floor when it fell. His father put a fist hard on the wood. The thud jerked him. The room was quiet, and then his father struck the door harder, and then three times quickly, with more weight. Terry went back to the dark clouds through his window.

You got nothing to say to me.

There was a pause, and then the hardest knock yet. Terry’s face slacked. He breathed slow, waited for footsteps backed away.

He tried to cry afterwards, but nothing came, and he stayed in his room smoking dope. He burnt candles until the wick lilted and they melted on his dresser. He put the tips of his fingers into the wax, and it didn’t hurt so much. He took the knife from the floor and unfolded it and cut slits on top of his knuckles. He kneeled at the floor vent, and put his face close; the air came through cold. He shut his eyes and spoke into the vent.

Tell me where I am, he said.