Chapter 1: The Call That Changed Everything

The news delivered in the early hours of a chilling morning rarely brings joy. My sister, Natalie, was on the line.

"Quentin?" she managed to say, her voice trembling with unshed tears.

I muttered a response, still half-asleep and disoriented.

"Dad's in the hospital," she continued.

"What?" I shot up in bed, dread washing over me. My mind raced through a series of grim scenarios.

"What happened?"

"I don’t know," she replied, her tears now flowing freely. "We think he might have had a stroke…"

Silence enveloped me. I struggled to find words. My father had battled various health issues throughout his life: thyroid cancer, major heart surgeries, prostate cancer. Each time, he had triumphed, always emerging stronger. I had begun to believe he was invincible, but this felt different. The tremor in my sister's voice echoed my fears.

"Are you guys coming home?" she asked. "Can you make it back?"

"Us guys" referred to my twin brother, Nolan, and me. We were in Colorado for college, just starting a new semester when the call came in that wintry morning. For us, the question was no longer if we would go home, but how quickly we could get there.

We hurriedly packed our belongings and embarked on a journey through the mountains, the twilight fading as the stars began to vanish. Daylight broke, painting the sky with shades of crimson and gold as we sped eastward on Interstate 70. Memories flooded my mind, recalling the countless times Nolan and I had traveled this very road with our father during our childhood summers. But this time felt different. A nagging realization settled in: we would never share this drive with him again.

This thought morphed from a fleeting idea into a stark reality—a prelude to the many “lasts” that accompany the loss of a loved one. The final drive. The last meal together. The last coherent conversation. The parting words.

As we drove, I had little time to dwell on these reflections. The hours passed in a blur of worry and travel logistics: drive to Denver, park at the airport, check in, navigate security, wait at the terminal, board, and fly to Minneapolis. My mother awaited us there, and soon we would travel through the city, passing farms and wooded hills, until we reached our hometown of Mason City, Iowa.

Mason City, Iowa. If you’ve seen the film The Music Man, you’ve glimpsed a charming depiction of our town, albeit under the fictional name "River City." Nestled in north-central Iowa, Mason City is a modest, 28-square-mile enclave of farmland and gently rolling hills, just south of Minnesota. My parents often told me it was a wonderful place to raise a family, but having grown up here and witnessed the fragmentation of my family, I remained skeptical.

Yet, there is a unique beauty to this region, particularly in its nature preserves, meadows, and lakes. Despite its charm, Mason City is largely unremarkable—defined by agriculture and small-town businesses. It boasts a mix of warm-hearted Midwesterners and those with less amiable dispositions, all coexisting in a town where everyone thinks they know each other, yet few truly do.

The heart of Mason City lies in the Mercy Medical Center, the town’s largest employer, where my father had dedicated much of his life as an internal medicine physician. Patients adored him, often praising his compassionate care. At restaurants, baseball games, and schools, strangers would remind me of his kindness. "Steve understood humanity better than anyone I’ve known," a friend remarked at my father's hospital bedside months later. I couldn't agree more.

On that day, as my family rushed toward his workplace, my father was no longer a doctor but a critically ill patient. I gazed out the window, watching familiar landmarks pass by—places now heavy with meaning. Restaurants where we shared meals, parks where we walked, and streets we traveled for school and sports. But one location particularly resonated with me: the skatepark.

During high school, there was one day each year when students and teachers united for a community service project. Armed with rakes and garbage bags, we scattered across the city to lend a helping hand. This annual event, dubbed "Service Day," was often met with apathy, but it provided a welcome escape from mundane lectures.

My first year’s Service Day was unremarkable, spent cleaning up trash behind a local hardware store. When the clock struck three, we eagerly anticipated the weekend.

I met my friend Jayson, and we headed to the skatepark, driving past the Mercy Medical Center and Big Blue Lake in my family's battered Toyota Corolla. As we approached the park, we noticed an unusual number of disenchanted youths loitering nearby, eyeing us as we parked. Jayson fell silent, his attention fixed on a particular individual in the crowd.

As we grabbed our skateboards, a voice rang out: "That’s him! That’s Jayson!" A dozen accusatory fingers pointed our way.

"I heard you’re talking to my girl," a confrontational young man said, puffing out his chest.

"Um…your girl?" Jayson stammered.

"You know exactly who I mean. Why are you talking to her?"

The two faced off, and it quickly escalated from a conversation to a confrontation.

"What? Are you scared?" the assailant demanded.

"No, I’m not scared," Jayson replied, "but this doesn’t have to be a big deal…"

"Then fight me! Put your hands up!" With that, he shoved Jayson, who retaliated, and soon, fists were flying.

A crowd gathered, shouting in excitement as the two exchanged blows. Blood dripped from their noses, and the onlookers cheered. I felt an unsettling awareness creep in—someone was watching me.

In that moment, a piercing ring consumed my senses, and I collapsed to the ground in a daze. I had been struck from behind, and chaos erupted around me as I was pulled away from the fray.

Flashes of fists and feet rained down on me as I regained consciousness, seeing people separating the fighters. Just as suddenly, someone helped me to my feet and into the back of a small white sedan. I sat there, dizzy and disoriented, as the car sped toward the Mercy Medical Center.

It was Lucas, an old friend I hadn't seen in years, who had come to my