“I don’t remember getting there. I see it on the news and—I think—it’s me. I think maybe I did it and don’t know.” That made my stomach drop—but not enough to stop me. Not yet. I shut the door, sealed him in, and drove.
At the station, he fell quiet. Not defiant. Not calculating. Just emptied out. He told the story again, haltingly this time—blackouts, waking up miles from home, dirt on his shoes, hours missing. Said he’d started avoiding sleep.