[voiceover] A week before my father left, we were in the kitchen as the sun came up. Just the two of us. I was six. Mom was passed out in the bedroom in a tangle of sweaty sheets while I scavenged cupboards in a nearly-empty fridge for anything to eat. Dad called me over to the table, told me to bring the milk. We sat there, the last meal we ever shared, eating oreos that he'd left out overnight. Over soft, stale oreos, my father told me we were special because we knew a secret that other people don't. Like many things, an oreo, over time, becomes the very best version of itself. That was his last bit of wisdom. The final gospel of James Wiley Shannon. Five days later, he was gone.
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