The "death home" gave my son a really nice funeral, the kind I'd never wished to attend. When they tried closing his casket, I nearly fell on my face, not wanting them to shut the lid on my baby. We lost it after that, totally cemented in our grief. Cade got into drugs, joined a rock and roll band, and even grew out his damn hair. At the time, I was sick of "the oatmeal option" (the only food we had), so I kicked Cade out of the house, and started modeling and working as a diesel mechanic. That was how I met Earl, an old man and unlikely best friend; the "big sag," a middle aged woman who still flashed folks; my neighbor, the stripper next door, and "The Cowboy," a man who fell in love with me. It was slow at first, but Cade reverted back to the man I'd busked with years before. It wasn't until I killed a rogue skunk, and my daughter nearly choked on a fry, that I gave my husband another chance. But could our marriage recover from the death of our son?