Part 1

My name is Roland Thatcher, and if you’d told me five years ago that my life would be reduced to a one-bedroom apartment, a whiskey bottle, and a framed photo of a son I’ll never see again, I would’ve laughed in your face.
But that was before I became the man who killed his own boy.

It started on a Wednesday—always thought Wednesdays were harmless.
The sky was flat gray, the kind of dull color that feels like life itself is sighing.
I was at the warehouse, clipboard in hand, arguing with Jerry Watts over a misplaced pallet of auto parts when my phone rang.

“Mr. Thatcher?”
A woman’s voice. Tight. Hesitant. “This is Mercy Hospital. There’s been an accident involving your son, Colby Thatcher.”

The world froze around me. Machines kept whirring, forklifts kept beeping, but everything went quiet in my head.
They told me to come right away.

When I got there, a doctor in a wrinkled lab coat met me in the hallway. One look at his eyes and I knew.

I don’t remember much after that—just the smell of disinfectant and the sound of my own heartbeat roaring in my ears.

They said it was a workplace accident.
A shipping container slipped from its chains and crushed him.
Twenty-four years old, gone in an instant.

Three days later, the coroner called it “gross negligence.”
By the next week, my ex-wife, Jolene, was standing in a courtroom blaming me for it.

“You killed him, Roland!” she screamed, pointing at me like I was a monster.
“Your negligence killed our boy!”

Her new lawyer—Melvin Ashford, slick hair, smoother lies—fed her every line.
He painted me as a reckless father who taught his son that rules were for fools.
He said my bad habits, my shortcuts, my so-called arrogance at work had infected Colby and led directly to his death.

They had witnesses.
Three of my former employees testified that I used to brag about bending OSHA rules.
They said I mocked safety meetings.
They said I raised Colby to believe that speed mattered more than caution.

I wanted to shout that it was all lies—that I’d spent twenty years preaching the opposite—but when three people swear under oath and you have nothing but your word, truth doesn’t stand a chance.

The gavel came down like a hammer from hell.
The judge awarded Jolene the full $800,000 life-insurance payout and every marital asset.
The house, the savings, the retirement fund.

I walked out of that courtroom a ruined man.

The headline the next morning read:
FATHER’S NEGLIGENCE LINKED TO SON’S DEATH.

Neighbors stopped looking me in the eye.
Co-workers stopped calling.
I’d lost my son once to death—and again to reputation.

For months, I slept on a lumpy mattress in Colby’s old apartment.
It was the only place I could still smell him—coffee, cologne, and cinnamon candles.
I told myself being close to his things would make it hurt less.
It didn’t.

Every night I replayed that last breakfast at Murphy’s Diner.
We’d been eating there every Sunday for years—same booth, same order.
That morning, he’d pushed his eggs around the plate and said,
“Dad, something weird’s been happening at work.”

I should’ve listened.

He told me trucks were burning more fuel than their manifests showed, making off-route stops, and his supervisor brushed off his questions.
I told him not to get involved.
Told him to mind his business.

He smiled, said, “You’re probably right.”
Then he looked me dead in the eye.
“If anything ever happens to me, I want you to know I was trying to do the right thing.”

I laughed it off.
Now that sentence echoes in my skull every night.

Three months after the trial, his landlord called about clearing out the apartment.
I couldn’t bear the thought of strangers touching his things, so I took over the lease myself.

On the third day, I found it.

A metal lockbox shoved against the wall under his bed, coated in dust.
Combination lock.

I tried birthdays, addresses, nothing.
Then I remembered the day he learned to ride his bike—July 15, 2008.
071508.

The latch clicked.
Inside was enough cash to make my stomach twist—
neat stacks of hundreds, $250,000 in total.

Beneath the money were six flash drives labeled with dates.
And at the bottom, a white envelope that said simply: Dad.

My hands shook as I opened it.

Dad, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. They’ll probably make it look like an accident.
The money is from them. I took it as insurance. The drives have everything.
Start with the oldest one. Use the money to fight back—they’ll blame you somehow.
I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you told me to stay out of it.
I love you, Dad. Make them pay.
— Colby

For the first time since the funeral, I felt something other than grief.
I felt rage—cold, clean, purposeful.

Whatever killed my son wasn’t negligence.
It was murder.

And the people who’d done it thought they’d buried the truth with him.

They were wrong.

Part 2

The first flash drive clicked into my laptop with a small sound that felt louder than thunder. My palms were sweating, and the cheap apartment’s single lamp flickered against the dust in the air. I had no idea what I was about to see — only that whatever it was, it would change everything.

The files loaded: videos, spreadsheets, audio clips. Each folder marked by week, each timestamp matching dates before my son’s death.

I opened the first video.

It was grainy dash-cam footage from a Ridgefield Trucking eighteen-wheeler. The time stamp read Tuesday, 2:47 a.m. The truck turned off the main highway into an abandoned industrial park. Headlights swept across an empty warehouse. Then three unmarked white vans appeared.

My son’s voice came faintly from the audio track, muttering, “What the hell are they doing?”

Men climbed out of the truck and vans, moving boxes from one to the other. No uniforms, no manifest paperwork. When the last box disappeared into the vans, one of the men turned toward the dash camera. His face was clear for a second — Frank Nukem, Colby’s supervisor.

I felt my pulse hammer.

The next file showed the same thing, different night, different location. By the fifth, the pattern was unmistakable. Ridgefield Trucking was running side loads — smuggling something off the books.

The spreadsheet labeled “Summary” left no doubt.
Colby had logged everything: truck numbers, driver names, false manifests, addresses, fuel receipts. Notes in his clean handwriting beside each entry: “GPS anomaly — 2.3 miles off-route.”
He was building a case. Alone.

I clicked an audio file.
A voice I recognized immediately filled the room — Frank Nukem again.

“The kid in dispatch is sniffing around. He pulled manifests for six months back. He’s comparing them to fuel usage.”

Another man answered. Calm, smooth, calculating.

“Handle it.”

I froze.
I knew that voice.
I’d heard it in court, smooth as poison wrapped in honey.

Melvin Ashford.

My ex-wife’s lawyer.

I played the rest of the file, jaw clenched.

“Make it clean,” Ashford said. “We can’t afford exposure right now. Once he’s out of the picture, his mother will handle the narrative.”

My son had caught a criminal operation—drug money, maybe worse—and they’d silenced him for it.

I opened the next drive.

Drive Two contained photos of shipping documents, altered ledgers, and email screenshots. Colby had been digging deep — hacking office files, photographing paperwork, recording conversations.

He’d even created a chart comparing Ridgefield’s legitimate revenue with the hidden income. Millions of dollars unaccounted for.

Halfway through the files was a short video recorded on his phone. Colby looked straight into the camera, his expression pale and tired.

“Dad, if anything happens, tell Dwayne not to trust anyone from Ridgefield. Especially Ashford. He’s connected to them somehow. I’m scared, but I can’t stop now.”

He looked off-camera at something — or someone — then ended the recording.

I sat there in the dark, tears blurring the screen. My son hadn’t been reckless. He’d been brave.

And they’d killed him for it.

Drive Three was worse.

It held audio from meetings in the Ridgefield office. Voices I didn’t recognize talked about “drops,” “routes,” and “timing.” The code names were obvious once you knew what to listen for:
“Silver freight” meant heroin.
“Gold routes” meant cash pickups.

Colby had even recorded one conversation with Nukem saying, “The young Thatcher kid’s too smart for his own good. He’s gonna cause trouble.”

Then a female voice interrupted.

“Then handle him before he handles you.”

Her voice.

Jolene.

For a moment, I thought I was imagining it. My ex-wife’s soft Southern lilt, the one that used to say “I love you” before turning cold. I played it again, and there was no doubt.

“Handle him.”

The woman I’d spent half my life protecting had been part of it.

Drive Four removed any lingering illusions.

It opened to a video file named Container Accident Plan.mp4.

I forced myself to watch.

The camera showed a conference room, cell phone on the table recording from waist height. At one end sat Ashford, crisp suit, cold smile. Beside him, Nukem and another man I didn’t know.

They were discussing logistics — literally.

“We weaken the chains on container 32B,” Ashford said. “Schedule him near the dock when it’s being moved. Frame it as procedural error. I’ll handle the aftermath — widow, insurance, all of it.”

“And the father?” Nukem asked.

Ashford leaned back.

“He’s perfect. Ex-warehouse man, reputation for speed over safety. We’ll make it look like his influence got the boy killed.”

My breath left me.

They’d written the script months before the tragedy, right down to the lies Jolene had paraded in court.

I slammed my fist against the table, shaking. The cheap laptop rattled, the lamp flickered.

Then I saw one more file in the folder.

Mom’s Betrayal.mp4.

I almost couldn’t click it. But I did.

The screen showed my old living room.
Our couch. The one where we’d watched Colby open Christmas presents.
Jolene sat there, hair perfect, glass of wine in hand.
Across from her—Ashford.

I recognized the date in the file name. It was two weeks before my son’s death.

Ashford poured her another glass.

“Once the insurance clears, you’ll have eight hundred thousand. We’ll file the divorce right after. We make Roland the villain—his negligence killed the boy. You cry on the stand, you win public sympathy.”

Jolene smiled. That smile I used to think was love.

“And you’re sure Colby won’t suffer?”

“It’ll be quick,” Ashford said smoothly. “A freak accident. The father takes the fall. You and I disappear to Costa Rica. I’ve already got the passports.”

Then she laughed. Laughed.

“Twenty-six years of mediocrity. I deserve better.”

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The sound of their kiss on that recording tore through me worse than any blade could.

For a long time, I just sat there, staring at the frozen image of her face on my laptop.

Then I noticed there was one more drive left. Labeled Final.

I opened it.

The last video was Colby, filmed the night before he died.

He sat at his desk, pale and tired, his eyes red.

“Dad, I know about Mom. I confronted her tonight. She panicked, called someone, told them it had to happen tomorrow. I’m scared, but I can’t run. They’d just find me. I’ve hidden everything with Uncle Dwayne too, just in case.”

He swallowed hard, fighting tears.

“You were the best father anyone could ask for. You taught me to do the right thing. That’s what I’m doing now.”

The screen went black.

For a long time, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even think.

Then I picked up my phone and called Dwayne.

He answered on the first ring. “Roland?”

My voice broke. “He left you copies, didn’t he?”

Silence. Then a shaky breath. “Yeah. He did. I didn’t want to open it until I heard from you.”

“Don’t open anything,” I said. “Bring it to me. We’re going to the FBI tonight.”

By the time dawn broke, we were sitting across from two federal agents at the local field office — Agent Patricia Greer and Agent Marcus Coleman.
They watched the videos in silence, faces tightening with every new piece of evidence.

When the last file ended, Greer looked up, eyes sharp.

“Mr. Thatcher, your son built one of the most comprehensive evidence trails I’ve ever seen. We’ll move immediately.”

And they did.

By sunrise, warrants were issued.
By noon, Ridgefield Trucking was swarming with law enforcement.
By evening, seventeen arrests had been made.

Ashford tried to flee. They caught him at the airport.
Nukem was dragged out of his house in handcuffs.
Half the drivers were charged with drug trafficking and conspiracy.

But Jolene—she was gone.

Vanished the night before, just after I’d found the lockbox.

I didn’t sleep for two days, waiting for the call that finally came.

Agent Greer’s voice crackled through the line.

“We got her. Mexico. She was living under an alias—Jennifer Morrison. She’s being extradited as we speak.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed and cried for the first time in months.

Not for her.
For Colby.

Because now, finally, justice was coming.

Part 3 

The news hit like a hurricane.
By sunrise, every local station in the state carried the same headline:

“Major Drug-Trafficking Ring Exposed by Slain Dispatcher.”

Photos of Colby filled the screen—his smile, his eyes, his youth.
The world finally knew my son hadn’t died because of negligence.
He’d died because he was brave enough to uncover the truth.

For the first time in almost a year, I stood outside without feeling shame.
The warehouse guys who used to look away when they saw me started calling again.
Even my foreman dropped by the diner one morning, awkwardly sliding into the booth across from me.
“Roland,” he said, voice low. “I’m sorry we believed what we heard.”
I just nodded. There were no words that could untangle what had already been broken.

But I could feel the weight on my chest easing, piece by piece.

The FBI worked fast.
They had everything—Colby’s videos, my copies, and the ones Dwayne had hidden in his shop.
They’d recovered hard drives from Ridgefield’s office that matched Colby’s files line for line.
Every dollar, every illegal shipment, every voice in the recordings—there was no escaping it now.

When the agents brought Jolene back from Mexico, I didn’t recognize her.
The woman who once stood in court dripping with confidence was now handcuffed and hollow-eyed, her designer clothes traded for orange fabric and exhaustion.

I watched the footage on the evening news: her screaming, denying, fighting the officers.
The same lips that had once sworn love to me now spat the word “innocent” like a curse.
But the truth was already louder than her lies.

Two months later, I was called to testify.

The courtroom looked different this time.
Same judge, same oak benches—but now she was the one behind the defense table, and I was the one they called “Mr. Thatcher.”
Dwayne sat behind me in the first row. He hadn’t missed a single hearing.

Agent Greer presented the evidence.
They played the recordings: Ashford planning the accident, Jolene agreeing to it, Nukem talking about the “problem kid.”
Every word sliced through the courtroom like a blade.

When the video of Jolene and Ashford on our couch played, the entire room went silent except for her muffled sobs.
I didn’t look away.
I wanted to see her flinch, to feel every ounce of guilt she’d earned.

Ashford sat beside her, his lawyer whispering frantically, but there was no defense left to mount.
He’d been caught trying to move millions through offshore accounts.
The same slick charm that once fooled juries couldn’t save him now.

When my turn came to speak, my hands trembled only for a second.
Then I looked at Jolene and said, “My son died believing in justice.
He died trying to stop the poison you helped spread.
You didn’t just kill our boy—you killed every good thing that ever lived in us.”

She lowered her eyes, tears streaking her cheeks, but I saw no remorse there. Only fear.

The verdicts came down hard.

Seventeen guilty pleas across the board.
Drivers, accountants, coordinators—every last one tied to Ashford’s operation.

Ashford himself received the death penalty.
Jolene—life without parole.
Frank Nukem got forty years for conspiracy and murder.

As for the three warehouse workers who’d lied during the civil case, they confessed to perjury in exchange for reduced sentences.
Each had taken fifty thousand dollars from Ashford to destroy me.
They all went to prison.

When the judge finished reading the sentences, the courtroom buzzed with whispers.
I didn’t stay to hear them.
I just walked outside into the sunlight and let the air fill my lungs like freedom.

For the first time since Colby’s funeral, I could breathe.

The insurance company reached out weeks later.
They reversed the ruling, restored the payout, and added damages.
Eight hundred thousand dollars became nearly two million after settlements.

I didn’t want it.
It felt like blood money.
But I knew exactly what Colby would’ve told me: “Do something good with it, Dad.”

So I did.

The insurance funds became the Colby Thatcher Foundation—a legal aid program for families who’d lost loved ones to workplace violence and corruption.
The remaining money went to create the Thatcher Center for Workplace Safety, offering free training on how to recognize criminal activity hidden inside ordinary jobs.

We’ve already helped expose four illegal operations in two years.
Every time someone sends a thank-you letter, I read it aloud at Colby’s grave.

When Jolene’s sentencing came, she asked to speak to me.
I almost said no, but closure’s a strange thing. Sometimes you need to hear the monster admit she’s real.

They brought her in wearing shackles, her once-perfect hair chopped short, her voice shaking.

“Roland,” she said, “I’m sorry. I was blinded by greed. I thought we could start over. Can you ever forgive me?”

I stared at her for a long time.
The woman I once promised forever had become a stranger, a hollow shell of deceit.

“No,” I said finally.
“I’ll never forgive you. But I’m done hating you. That part of my life died with Colby.”

She started to cry, but I turned and walked away before the sound could reach me.

Sundays are different now.

Dwayne and I still go to Murphy’s Diner, same booth as always.
We order three plates—one for me, one for him, one for Colby.
Then we drive to the cemetery and eat breakfast by his headstone, telling him about the lives his courage saved.

Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we cry.
But every time we leave, I look at the sky and whisper,
“You did it, son. You made them pay.”

And somewhere deep down, I swear I can hear his voice—steady, proud, the same way it sounded that last morning at the diner—
“Love you, Dad.”

I always answer the same way:
“Love you too, kid. Always.”

Part 4 

Three years later, the town finally stopped whispering when they saw me.
People still nodded respectfully, the way you do when you’ve run out of things to say to someone who’s survived the worst.
I didn’t need pity anymore.
What I needed was purpose—and that came with Colby’s name carved above the doors of the foundation building downtown:

The Colby Thatcher Foundation for Justice and Safety.

Every morning I unlocked those glass doors, smelled the fresh coffee brewing in the lobby, and felt that same quiet pride I used to feel walking into the warehouse.
Only now I wasn’t moving freight—I was moving mountains.

We started small.
One desk, one printer, one volunteer.
Today, we have a dozen caseworkers, three attorneys, and a hotline that runs twenty-four hours a day.
Every week, we get calls from truckers, warehouse workers, delivery drivers, and dispatchers who think something’s wrong where they work but don’t know who to trust.
They all say the same thing Colby once told me: “Something weird’s been happening at work.”

Each time I hear those words, my chest tightens.
Each time, I answer, “Let’s look into it together.”

The first big case came from a forklift operator named Nate Ruiz out of Indiana.
He’d found extra crates appearing on his shipping manifests—crates his boss told him to “ignore.”
It sounded too familiar to let slide.

We connected Nate with a federal contact from the same team that investigated Ridgefield.
Three months later, they uncovered another smuggling route—guns this time instead of drugs.
Seventeen arrests.
Another family saved from being destroyed like mine.

When the news broke, reporters tried to put me on camera again.
I told them, “Don’t make me the story. Make them the story—the people brave enough to speak up.”
Because the truth was, Colby’s courage didn’t end when he died.
It passed on, piece by piece, to everyone willing to do the right thing even when it’s dangerous.

My brother Dwayne still runs his auto shop.
He keeps a framed photo of Colby above the front desk, right next to the “No Smoking” sign.
Every customer who walks in and asks who the young man is gets the same answer:
“That’s the kid who changed everything.”

He volunteers at the foundation on weekends, teaching safety basics to young mechanics.
The first time I saw him leading a class of twenty-year-olds, explaining torque and chain locks with the same voice he once used to teach Colby, I had to step outside for air.
Some pains never disappear; they just grow roots.

Once a year, on the anniversary of the arrests, the FBI invites me to speak to their recruits.
Agent Patricia Greer always introduces me with a handshake and that firm smile of hers.
“This man reminds us that heroes don’t always wear badges,” she says.

The first time, I could barely talk through the lump in my throat.
Now, I tell them the same thing every year:
“Justice isn’t about revenge. It’s about responsibility. My son didn’t die chasing money or fame—he died because he refused to look the other way. Don’t ever look the other way.”

They always stand and clap when I finish, but that’s not what matters.
What matters is the handful who come up after, eyes shining, saying, ‘That’s why I joined.’
Those are the ones carrying him forward.

I still live modestly.
The insurance money’s long gone into scholarships and programs.
My apartment’s above the foundation office now—a second-hand couch, Colby’s blue coffee mug, and a wall covered in photos of every worker we’ve helped.
Each one a victory against the kind of corruption that killed my boy.

Sometimes, late at night, I catch myself talking to him.
“Col, you’d be proud,” I say into the quiet. “We’re still fighting.”

And maybe it’s just the wind through the old vent, but I swear I hear his voice whisper back,
“Keep going, Dad.”

Last spring, the community college dedicated a scholarship in his name for criminal-justice majors.
I went to the ceremony expecting formality and polite speeches.
Instead, a young woman with a steady voice stood up to accept the first award.

“My father was a truck driver,” she said. “He died from an overdose because of the drugs people like Ashford pushed.
Your son’s courage saved families like mine from more of that pain. I’m studying law because of him.”

When she handed me a handwritten thank-you card afterward, I couldn’t read a single line.
My eyes were too full of tears.

Not everything healed cleanly.
There are still nights when I wake up sweating, hearing the clang of chains and the echo of that gavel.
There are still moments when I see Jolene’s face in my dreams, frozen on that courtroom screen while her betrayal played for the world to see.
But the rage that once lived in me is gone.
It burned itself out and left something quieter in its place—resolve.

I don’t visit her in prison.
She sends letters sometimes.
They always start the same: “Roland, please…”
I never open them.
Forgiveness is a fine thing, but some ghosts need to stay behind locked doors.

This morning, Dwayne and I drove to the cemetery like we do every Sunday.
Same booth at Murphy’s first—scrambled eggs, bacon, wheat toast, three coffees.
The waitress doesn’t even ask anymore.

We laid one plate at Colby’s grave.
The granite is smooth from years of rain, his name carved deep enough to last forever.
Underneath, the words I chose myself:

He did the right thing.

Dwayne cleared his throat. “Got another thank-you letter yesterday,” he said. “Kid from Kansas. Said he watched your speech online. Joined the state safety board because of it.”

I smiled. “Guess the kid’s still recruiting.”

We sat there until the sun dipped low, talking about cars and music and life like we used to.
When it was time to go, I brushed the dirt from the stone and whispered,
“You’re still making me proud, son.”

The wind moved through the grass like an answer.

That night, back at the office, I locked up late.
The hallway lights clicked off one by one, leaving only the glow from Colby’s framed photo.
His smile caught the last bit of light before the room went dark.

I stood there a moment longer, coffee mug in hand, feeling the weight of peace—the kind you only earn after walking through fire and coming out still standing.

Then I whispered to the empty room,
“Rest easy, Col. I’ve got the night shift from here.”

Part 5 

Winter came early that year.
Frost crept up the windows of the foundation building, and the streets outside gleamed silver under streetlights. Most nights I stayed late in my upstairs office, the hum of the heater keeping me company while the city slept.

I’d long since stopped expecting surprises—until the envelope arrived.

It came in plain brown paper, no return address, no postmark I could make out. The receptionist brought it upstairs and said, “Looks personal.”

I turned it over in my hands.
The handwriting on the front stopped me cold.

Colby’s.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs. It couldn’t be—his letters, his files, everything had been catalogued and returned months ago.
Still, I tore it open.

Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper, folded twice, the edges yellowed.

Hey, Dad,

If you ever read this, it means someone found it while cleaning out the apartment. I wrote it the same night I made the videos, just in case everything else got lost.
I wanted one letter that wasn’t about evidence or guilt—just about us.

Remember when we rebuilt that old Chevy with Uncle Dwayne? You told me the hardest part of fixing something is believing it’s still worth fixing. You were right. People are the same way. You never gave up on me, even when I was a screwup. So don’t give up on yourself, okay?

I know you’ll blame yourself for what happens, but please don’t. I made my choice. I couldn’t watch good men get crushed while everyone looked away. You raised me to stand up for what’s right. That’s what I’m doing.

If they’ve already tried to break you—and I know they will—get back up. Live. Help people. You’ve still got time to fix things, Dad.

I love you.
— Colby

The paper shook in my hands. For a long time I couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. I just sat there, reading those words again and again until the tears blurred them into rivers.

Then I folded the letter carefully and slipped it into my wallet behind my driver’s license, where I could feel it every time I reached for change.

The next morning I drove out to the cemetery alone.
Snow fell in slow, lazy flakes, covering the granite until it looked like the world had draped a blanket over him.

I brushed the snow away from his name and laid a new letter beside the flowers.

You were right, kid. I got back up. I’m still fixing things. And I finally believe some things are worth fixing forever.

I sat there until my fingers went numb, then whispered, “Thank you.”

Years have passed since that morning.
The foundation has grown beyond anything I imagined.
There’s a branch office in Chicago now, another opening in Denver. Each one carries Colby’s name over the door, carved in bronze.

Every time we take a case, every time another family walks in scared and leaves hopeful, I think about that night I opened the lockbox and saw the truth for the first time.

I think about how pain can be a forge.
How sometimes losing everything is what lets you find your purpose.

I still drink my coffee from that blue mug Colby gave me when he was ten. The handle’s cracked now, but I can’t bring myself to replace it. Every morning I pour it full, take a sip, and look at the photo on my desk—me, him, and Dwayne at Murphy’s Diner, all grins and greasy plates.

It’s enough.

The past doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. It hums quietly in the background, a reminder instead of a wound.

When people ask what keeps me going, I tell them the truth:
“Because someone once trusted me to make things right.”

And when the sun sets through the office windows, catching on that plaque that says The Colby Thatcher Foundation, the light turns gold—like forgiveness, or maybe just peace.

I take another sip of coffee, smile, and whisper,

“Rest easy, son. We did it.”

THE END