It was a Saturday. The day thirteen-year-old Lamar Clapp visited Uncle Veser at the home. It was bustling with nurses like usual, but he could find the twenty-something-year-old man in his wheelchair by the large window that overlooked the courtyard. If only this was a normal visit… When Lamar gave Veser the news, he didn’t react. “I-it was a suicide,” Lamar stuttered, blinking, waiting for something, anything. But nothing. “Veser, you’re a paranoid and disorganized schizophrenic with PTSD who can’t put down a cigarette and who slices his arms on a weekly basis because he likes to bleed. I know you have something to say.” Harsh, coming from a thirteen-year-old.

Veser ran long fingers up and down the bandages that ran the entire length of his arms, to cover up the scars. “I thought we could go back.”

“She was the source of your PTSD. There was nothing you could do.”

Lamar watched as Veser pulled something out of his pocket. A photo of a boy and a girl and two horses and a District 10 sunrise behind them.