July 2006 – August 2006
On the drive home, Charley sat in the passenger seat, alert and steady, while Buffy curled into the clothes basket I had turned into a makeshift bed. We stopped at our usual places. Gas in Wytheville. Food at Tamarack. Tamarack was one of those landmark stops I had passed so many times driving between South Carolina and West Virginia that it marked something important. Once I pulled out of that parking lot, I knew I was on the final stretch. I was almost home.
Charley never liked going through the tunnels. He would tense up every time, so I talked him through them the way I always had. My focus stayed locked on getting home. That was all that mattered. The closer I got to Marion County, the more joy I felt building in my chest.
The night before, I had called John and Barb and made plans to stay with them temporarily until I could find a place closer to Fairmont. I arrived early in the morning on July ninth. I unpacked just enough to be functional, then took a much-needed nap. When I woke up a few hours later, Charley and I got back in the car and headed straight to the farm.
It was difficult keeping my speed down. The closer I got, the more I felt my foot pressing the accelerator without realizing it. When I turned onto Four States Road, I forced myself to slow. I wanted to see what had changed. There was construction near the beginning of the road where erosion had eaten away at the creek bank. At least two abandoned houses had burned down. Other than that, everything looked the same.
As I got closer, I noticed the gas company had put in the access road we had agreed upon—mostly. It ran all the way to our property line and cut toward the right-of-way. I followed it and realized I could completely bypass the Eagles’ property and head straight up to the farm. That mattered. It meant I could come and go without being seen.
I drove up to the house with the windows down. I could hear the ducks and geese squawking. I pulled into the carport and parked where my vehicle would be hidden. There was a faint thought in the back of my mind that someone might figure out I was back. No one knew except John and Barb. But it didn’t overshadow the excitement. I was home.
When I arrived, I immediately started scanning for tasks. Assessing. Measuring. Taking inventory. The grass had grown at least a foot in some areas, but otherwise everything looked untouched. Being alone on the farm felt both relieving and empty.
When I stepped out, I noticed that items we had taken out of the wash house months earlier were still scattered around the yard, half-swallowed by tall grass. I unlocked the wash house and put everything back where it belonged, digging through weeds to find some of it. Then I walked the property. Everything seemed in place. I checked the feed, petted a few of my favorite ducks, closed the gate, and headed to the house.
When I opened the back door, I noticed the smell first. It didn’t smell like gunpowder anymore. It smelled like it always had—dry, with a faint hint of sawdust. Relief washed over me. I walked straight into the living room, opened the blinds, and looked out toward the alpaca barn. It was a beautiful, sunny day. There was a breeze, so I began opening all the windows downstairs. It felt like I was letting life back into the house. Like I was announcing that I was home.
In the kitchen, I opened another window and noticed Five Days’ aquarium sitting on the counter. He was floating at the top, lifeless. No one had taken care of him while I was gone. My heart sank. He felt like another casualty in the long struggle with Dale. Collateral damage.
I took the aquarium outside to the place on the farm where we buried Sammy, our ducks, and the other animals we had lost over the years. Five Days wasn’t just a fish. He was special. Unlike the others that had gone down the toilet, he deserved to be buried with the other animals. I dug a small hole and laid him to rest. With Charley at my side, we walked back to the house.
Upstairs, I opened the bedroom windows one by one. When I stepped into my parents’ room, I stopped. Their pajamas had been washed and neatly folded in a basket in the corner. John and Barb had done that. It caught me off guard. At first, it felt invasive—different from how I remembered the room. But it also made me deeply appreciative. They loved my parents. This was another way they showed it.
Charley looked at me, his head tilted, confused. I rubbed his head and said, “They’re not here, Charley.” I was saying it to both of us.
Outside, I opened the alpaca barn. Everything was exactly where we left it. Except the animals were gone. The grass inside the fenced areas was higher than anywhere else. Alpaca manure had always acted like miracle grow. I had no idea how I was going to mow it.
I went to the gray garage where Maxwell’s pen had been and pulled out the riding lawn mower. There was still gas in it. I put Charley back in the house and started mowing around the yard, then the duck and goose enclosure. They were thrilled, spending the rest of the afternoon picking through the cut grass for insects.
Afterward, I went inside for a drink. The refrigerator was empty except for bottled water. I grabbed one and noticed the DirecTV DVR was still active. Five weeks’ worth of recorded shows sat there waiting. I looked at Charley and said, “Let’s catch up.” Watching those shows felt like doing something with my parents—finishing what they couldn’t. I microwaved popcorn and put it in my dad’s favorite green bowl. Charley and I sat on the futon, eating popcorn and watching television. For a moment, life felt normal again. I knew it wasn’t real, but the comfort was real all the same.
I stayed until dark. I hadn’t told John and Barb I was there alone. Once I couldn’t see outside, I closed the windows and locked the doors. My allergies were flaring from the freshly cut grass. Part of me wanted to shower and sleep in my own bed. But leaving felt like the wiser choice. The house felt alive again. I would be back.
The next day, I started making calls. Friends. Family. My brother already knew I was back. He wasn’t happy, but he understood. He was more at ease when I told him I wouldn’t be living on the farm. I notified the Sheriff’s Department and scheduled meetings with the prosecutor and detective. I stopped by Cracker Barrel to see about work. Everyone was glad to see me. I was glad to see them too. I got put back on the schedule.
I called Kevin and Marie from my parents’ small group and mentioned that I was looking for a place to stay closer to Fairmont until I could find something permanent. They didn’t hesitate. They offered their spare bedroom. Their kindness felt effortless, the way genuine hospitality always does.
Charley came with me. Buffy stayed at the farm, her food dish and litter box placed exactly where they had always been so she would feel right at home. I settled into the spare bedroom, and for the first time in a while, I felt something close to comfortable. Kevin and Marie were easy to be around. We talked about church, about my parents, about what was going on locally. There was no pressure to perform or explain myself. In the evenings, we watched movies together, the kind of quiet, ordinary routine that felt grounding.
One night, we sat down to watch The Notebook. None of us had seen it before. We thought it was just another romantic movie—something safe. As it unfolded, I felt myself slowly stiffen. By the time the ending came and the main couple died together, I couldn’t hide it. The resemblance to my parents—their devotion to one another, the way they had lived and died side by side—hit too close to home. I don’t think any of us saw that coming. I joked about what a doozy of a movie we chose to watch to lighten the mood. I didn’t want Kevin and Marie to feel bad. No harm, no foul. Sometimes you don’t see the emotional landmines until you step on them.
The next night, we tried again.
This time we chose Frequency. The premise sounded harmless enough. About halfway through, it became clear that the movie centered on a son who discovers he can communicate with his deceased father through an old ham radio. I remember sitting there thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me. The idea of being able to talk to my dad again—to hear his voice, ask him questions, tell him things I hadn’t gotten the chance to—triggered a deep, aching longing I wasn’t prepared for.
At that point, the pattern was undeniable. Two nights. Two movies. Both managing, completely by accident, to hit the most tender places imaginable. The timing was so bad it became funny. I broke the tension by joking that maybe next we should watch Old Yeller or Where the Red Fern Grows, just to complete the emotional demolition. We laughed. Real laughter. The kind that comes when the absurdity of life finally outweighs the pain, if only for a moment.
Despite everything, Frequency was actually a decent movie. Emotional trauma aside, it was well done. And in its own strange way, those evenings became memorable—not because they were painless, but because they reminded me that even grief can coexist with humor, warmth, and human connection.
I stayed with Kevin and Marie for most of July. As comfortable and supportive as it was, I knew it was temporary. I was ready to move on, grateful for the refuge they had given me, but also aware that I needed something that felt a little more permanent.
Around that time, I received an email from another family in my parents’ small group. John and Cathy reached out and offered to let me stay with them for as long as I needed. I wasn’t surprised by the offer, but I was deeply grateful. John and Cathy were among the first families I had met when I visited South Ridge for the first time back at the Marriott. They reminded me of my parents in quiet, familiar ways. They were steady, generous people, the kind who opened their home without ceremony or expectation.
They had also lost money to the same contractor my parents had struggled with, and that shared experience created an unspoken bond between us. It wasn’t something we talked about often, but it was there—a mutual understanding shaped by disappointment, trust misplaced, and lessons learned the hard way. Over time, they had become close friends of my parents, woven into the same community that had surrounded and supported them.
Their house was large, with plenty of room, and it was close to Fairmont State. The decision made sense practically, and it also felt right emotionally. Staying with them felt like remaining inside my parents’ orbit, as if I was still connected to the life they had built and the people they loved. In a season where everything felt fractured, that continuity mattered.
I accepted their offer and moved in about a week before classes started. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was just passing through. I set up my desk, unpacked personal items, and arranged the room in a way that made it feel like mine. It no longer felt temporary.
Being closer to campus lifted a quiet weight I hadn’t fully acknowledged. Less driving meant more sleep, more margin, and a sense that the coming semester might be manageable after all. I felt settled—maybe not whole, but grounded. And at that point, grounded was enough.
College classes started on August twenty-first. It felt good to be back on campus. There was comfort in the familiar buildings, the predictable rhythm of the day, and the ability to blend in again. I had taken enough classes with the same professors over the years that a few of them recognized me immediately. They were surprised—and genuinely happy—to see me. When they asked how I was doing, I said I was okay. It was a polite deflection, the kind of answer that kept things moving without opening doors I wasn’t ready to walk through.
I was looking forward to the distraction of studying and learning. School felt like refuge. For a few hours at a time, I could focus on something structured and contained, something that had nothing to do with grief or court dates or the farm. It felt normal.
That semester was focused heavily on Political Science. I took Political Parties, a class that traced the history of political parties in the United States and their influence on elections and the shaping of the country. I also took Congress and the Legislative Process, which examined how the legislative branch works and how, over time, it had steadily ceded power to the executive. For my Public Administration minor, I enrolled in Organizational Behavior, where we studied theories about organizations and the ways human behavior shapes them from the inside out. I also took Geology again. I had already taken it at WVU, but Fairmont State required a lab credit, so I had to repeat it.
Politics felt like a completely different world from the one I was living in. That separation helped. It allowed my mind to rest in a place untouched by everything that had happened.
A couple of weeks into the semester, though, I wasn’t doing well. I was overwhelmed trying to juggle the farm, work, and school. The outside world kept bleeding into the classroom. I missed classes. When I did, guilt followed immediately. I didn’t like missing class. I didn’t like the idea that the fallout from the shooting was interfering with my education. That felt like another thing being taken from me.
After one class, the professor I was taking two courses with pulled me aside. I trusted him. He had a military background, and he spoke with a calm directness that made it clear he was treating me like an adult, not a problem to be managed. He told me to take two weeks off from his classes and think seriously about whether I should be in college right now. He said that whatever decision I made needed to be one I believed in. No second-guessing. If I chose to return, I could make up the exams. His concern was genuine, and I appreciated it.
During those two weeks, I took stock of everything I was carrying—the work at the farm, my job, my health, and the weight of everything still unfolding. I was realistic. There was a possibility that stepping away from school might be the right choice. But I wanted to stay. What I needed wasn’t escape. It was structure.
I cut back my hours at work and began setting clearer boundaries around my time. I accepted that my situation was unique and that it required intention and planning if I was going to succeed. When I returned to class two weeks later, I did so more focused. I wasn’t untouched by everything that had happened—but I was learning how to move forward without letting it consume every part of my life.