As I once said: my Dad was a clever man.

In the year since Mom's murder — in the year since I'd run away — I'd managed to settle into my role as a fake med student. Frankly, it'd proven pretty easy. Few people knew to ask the tough questions. The ones that did never bothered to listen to the answers too closely. All it really took was one tired secretary at the faculty to just glance over my papers and take my word that all the signatures checked out. Maybe she didn't care to check any of the students' info. Maybe she thought I had a pretty face. Whatever the case, I was living in a small apartment a few blocks away from campus. I did odd jobs here and there to keep the electricity afloat. The textbooks I either stole, copied or just didn't have.

It wasn't easy, but I didn't want it to be. Being up from 6 AM to midnight kept me busy. Kept my mind off of everything. Kept me focused. Kept me alone.

Not entirely alone, I guess. I had a few short relationships here and there. Nothing serious. I always assumed I had this air of mystery that attracted people to me. When they inevitably concluded there wasn't much hiding under the surface, they let me be. The men usually asked less questions. They were also quicker to leave. Whether they expected me to open up on my own and eventually got frustrated, or just didn't care much to begin with, I can't say.

The exception to those encounters were the weekend nights. That was 'the graveyard shift,' as I called it. I was mostly alone on those.

Mostly.

When all was said and done, I was convinced I'd found peace. It'd still be a year until I was caught. I knew it'd happen sooner or later. Every night felt like it could be the last. I sometimes stayed up, thinking about what I'd do next. Obviously, I'd go on the run. But where would I go? What would I see? I mostly just pictured myself as a lone stranger, trekking across America, stopping in small towns. Maybe even doing good deeds. Maybe, I thought, there would eventually be rumors about me. Maybe they would call me a ghost.

As strange as it sounds, the uncertainty, in its own right, was a certain kind of peace. I was free.

Yet, peace corrodes. Time catches up with us all.

As I said. My Dad was a clever man.

It was Christmas Eve. I'd just reached my apartment, coming back from a night of drunk partying with some of my fellow students. A few drinks more and I probably would've missed him, sitting on a bench. If I had, would he had even talked to me?

He certainly didn't look like he wanted to. I guess making eye contact kind of put us both in a position where walking away would've just been wrong.

I walked up to him.

"Hey." he said.

"Hey." I said.

For the longest time, that was that. No hugs. No mention of Mom. No yelling. No crying. Just silence and the snow.

"How'd you find me?" It wasn't much of an ice-breaker, but better than nothing.

He ran his gloved finger through his mustache. "Well, uh. Do the reverse image searches enough times and you're bound to eventually hit something. You weren't exactly making an effort to hide, son." He sniffed. "I caught you in the background of some kid's frat party. Was a long shot, but I got down here, asked around, showed the photo and here I am."

"You—"

"I didn't say any names or give my reasons. I'm not here to give you any trouble."

I didn't know what to say. "Thanks."

"Yeah." He adjusted his glasses. They were pretty fogged-up by that point. "Look. I'm not gonna ask you why you ran away. I know why you ran away. And I'm not gonna ask you to come back home. This is stupid, but you'll realize that on your own time. When you do, I trust you'll come back. Or you won't. Either way, you seem resourceful enough. Got a roof over your head. Going to classes — which probably won't add up to much when they catch you, but hey — I doubt you'll listen to me."

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for."

"I could've saved her." I said.

"Nobody's replayed that night in their head more times than me, son. And let me tell you, I'll gladly take on your share of the blame, as well. Just like you've already taken mine." He chuckled. "At the end of the day, the lion's share of it lies with the man who stabbed her."

"Any news about that? Can't say I've been following."

He shook his head. "I'll keep you posted, if you want."

"Just tell me if they catch him, I guess."

"Sounds fair."

Another moment of silence. This one felt more decisive. The longer it went, the harsher what followed it would be. Yet, none of us said a word until it was too late.

"I need to tell you something." he said. "Now that she's gone. And you're here, living your wildest life."

"It's not like that."

"And I'm stuck alone at home. And whoever killed her goes around, probably stabbing other wives. And nothing really matters. Now's the time to say it. I think, with everything else haunting me to my grave, I can afford this one last thing."

"Dad—"

"I don't think you're my son."

I froze.

"I'm sorry." he simply said. "You are, obviously, my son. I raised you. But, biologically, I don't think you're mine."

"You think Mom cheated on you? You think I'm—"

"I can't prove it. And frankly, I don't want to. But you look just like him. The man she—she was seeing before the two of us got together. I don't want to think that after four years we'd spent together before we had were all a lie. And for all I know, they weren't. For all I know, it was a moment of weakness. But you look just like him. At first, I tried convincing myself I was going crazy. But I'm not. Not anymore. Even your voice is—it's just—" He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I just don't know."

"Dad, I'm sorry, but you're being ridiculous."

"Of course I am. I'm drunk. But the thoughts are my own, at least. At least I've got that, yep."

"Jesus Christ."

He got up. "That's all I wanted to say. If you think I'm full of shit, that's fair. I might just be. Maybe I'm heading for a mental breakdown. I'm feeling just broken enough for that to be the next step."

He missed a step — his very first — and stumbled into the snow.

I helped him to his feet.

"I hope you'll be better than your father. Whichever one you decide is yours." He laughed.

I dragged him up the steps to my apartment and brought him over to the couch. I'd usually fix myself a glass of whiskey before bed. Tonight didn't seem appropriate somehow.

I walked into the kitchen.

Toaster Ghost popped out of his little toaster and sat on the counter.

"Holy shit, that's Gabe." he murmured.

"Sure doesn't look like him, though." I sighed.

"You're not looking much better than him, slick. Like father like son, if you ask me."

"Not tonight. Sorry."

I filled a cup with water and put it in the microwave.

"Ugh." the ghost complained. "Microwave? Again?"

"Doesn't matter how you boil the water."

"Doesn't feel fancy."

"Doesn't feel like how Mom would do it. I know. But if you want some tea, you'll take this tea."

"Today was a bad day, then."

"It was alright. Until about fifteen minutes ago."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No. No, not really." I admitted, slumping into one of the chairs at the dining table.

"You can't keep running this forever."

"It's not about Mom."

"Everything's about mommy. Whether you wanna admit it or not."

"The amount of things in my life that are about Mom depend entirely on what mood you're in when I get back. Knock it off already. She died. I blame myself. But I'm not doing what I'm doing because of that guilt or because I'm scared or whatever. I'm doing it because there's nothing left there. That's it. That's the whole story. Beginning, middle and end. For crying out loud, if I wanted to run away from anything, you'd be the first thing on my list."

"Hey, I'm not stopping you. You wanna throw me in the trash, throw me in the trash. You don't owe me anything."

I didn't believe that was entirely true. He had saved my life, after all. "I'm exaggerating. Obviously. I—" I sighed. "You're the only one who gets it. And I. I don't. Want. To feel alone. And with you here, I don't. There. I said it."

"That so." For some reason, he didn't sound too convinced. "You know, I've seen a lot of people like you. And the thing with them was that the nature of their loneliness always changed. And you know what that means?"

"What?"

"It means that different kinds of loneliness require different remedies."

I frowned. "What are you saying?"

He clicked his tongue. "Never mind. What about your dad? I'm sure he'd be thrilled to help you feel less alone."

I looked over to the man sleeping on the sofa. "Sure. But I already made him feel alone. I abandoned him when he needed me. Even if we were together, I don't think I can fix that anymore. At this point, we can just—" I thought back to what he'd said. "—hurt each other."

"Sorry to hear that."

"It's none of your business, anyway. You're just a fucking toaster."

"A toaster you never use."

"And you know why."

He grinned. "I miss hearing your angelic scream."

"Don't bring it up."

"I gave it some thought. How do you feel about 'Pussy for Toasters?' Works as a nickname and a pick-up line."

"I don't even know in what universe that's a pick-up line. Nor do I want to think about the ghost ectoplasm that probably gets on that toast."

"I leave no ectoplasm. I am a goo-free entity, I'll have you know."

The microwave beeped.

"And for your information," he continued, "it's a pick-up line because you imply that you'll give a toaster if they sleep with you."

I couldn't help but laugh. "What kind of 1930s horseshit is that? Have you ever even gotten laid?"

"C'mon, man. Look at me. I'm pristine."

"Looks don't help much when you're terrible in pretty much every other department."

"Hey, at least I've still got the looks. What do you think you'll look like when you die?"

"I guess I'll just have to live forever. You know, to spite you."