He left home at seventeen, heading nowhere and planning nothing. “King of the Road,” he thought. No more allegiances, no more commitments. “Just myself, nobody else.”
The note he left on the dining room table had read, “I’ve had enough. Don’t bother looking for me.” His mother and father, he knew, wouldn’t bother. They never had cared. Hearts of stone. He just hoped his was flesh and blood. If he stayed, he would never know.
Years later he read that his parents had died drunk in a house fire. He wept copiously.
His heart was just fine.