Little Johnny has a ravenous desire for chocolate chip cookies. No obstacle will thwart his quest. The five year old slowly constructs a tower of disparate objects. A stool, several small boxes, he places a chair next to the stool and starts the next layer of the tower: two three-ring binders he found in the boxes that Mommy had packed when Daddy went to be with God.

He slowly ascends to the top, the unstable tower wobbling under his unsure feet.

He extends his arm, the cookie jar just out of his reach. He stands on his tip-toes and tries once more.

“Got it!” he exclaims just before he loses his balance and plummets to the floor. The lid flies off the urn holding his Daddy’s ashes, the ashes showering his body.

Shocked, little Johnny sneezes before crying out, “Mommy!”

She sprints into the living room and screams. The urn, no longer on the mantle above the fireplace, her child white as a ghost.

Years later, John Thompson is haunted by the thought that he might have swallowed part of his father’s soul.