Logan
I was eight years old.
The walls of our house were cold and uninviting, filled with the scent of cigars and the persistent feeling of tension.
My father’s office was the epitome of this atmosphere—a sanctuary of order and discipline. Mahogany desk, leather chair, and shelves teeming with meticulously arranged books. He sat at his desk with the stern posture that always intimidated me, his icy eyes scanning through documents on his laptop.
“Dad, can we go to the fair? Matty and Greg are going with their families,” I said, barely containing my excitement. I clutched a crumpled flyer for the fair in my tiny hand, complete with pictures of cotton candy, carousels, and game booths.
But my other hand was clenched nervously into a fist, my knuckles white with anticipation.
Leonard’
