He was limping, his wet hair plastered to his forehead.

It was my father.

He looked around frantically, his eyes wild.

He didn’t see me crouching in the shadows.

He made a run for a white transport van parked near the edge of the pier.

“Dad,” I whispered, the word lost in the wind.

Before he could reach the van, the warehouse door swung open.

Roman emerged, his gun raised, his face like stone.

“Callahan,” Roman called out, his voice cutting through the storm.

My father froze, his hand on the door handle of the van.

He slowly turned, raising his free hand, but his grip on the satchel never loosened.

“Roman,” my father gasped, his breath coming in ragged white puffs. “It’s not what you think.”

“You stole my money to fund a militia,” Roman said, stepping closer.

“I had no choice!” my father yelled. “They would have killed me!”

“Who is ‘they’?” Roman demanded.

My father looked past Roman, his eyes scanning the darkness.

His gaze landed on me.

A slow, crooked smile spread across his face, the same look he gave me when he traded my life for his debts.