I move in with my old man for one year to get back on my feet. Just one year, I tell myself. When I was in my 20s I’d think: I can do anything for a year. A year is nothing. I can snort coke every day; I can date a psychotic nymphomaniac; I can hustle billiard halls for a living. In my 30s a year felt longer than it had in my 20s, but it was still just a year: I can survive on unemployment; I can live without health insurance; I can sleep in my car. Now, a year feels like darkness where there will never be light; like I’m dangling from the rim of a black hole. Maybe it’s because my marriage failed and my son disowned me; or because my old man is ashamed and waits for me to come upstairs so he can fire off a round of questions: Where will you live next year? What about a job? What about child support and alimony? Or because he once called me a pariah and I can hear the walls of this basement whispering that word every minute of every day; or because my old man joined the military when he was 18 as a way to get money for college but then 9/11 happened and Iraq happened and Afghanistan happened and an IED took one of his legs and all of his ambition; or because yesterday I saw my son for the first time in eight years and he’s changed a lot but I knew it was him because he has my eyes, so I wanted to hug him, I wanted just one hug, but he backed away all confused and I said, why are you so afraid of your old man? and he stared at me like I was a crazy person, like he had no idea who I am.