My father fled the morgue on New Year’s Eve, two days before we buried him. He traveled with the north wind, spitting sleet. He blew in through a keyhole with his fogged mind, clogged heart, and homelessness. The house shivered. I turned up the thermostat. An iridescent scarab clattered across the floor and vanished under the sofa. I poured Scotch on the rocks, set the glass by the couch, played him a lost violin concerto. He sobbed. At night, his shade propped against the door frame. I followed his sighs to the living room, watched pixels blur as he surfed the box. I turned the TV off. He turned it on again. He sent me blank texts, flashed the phone’s red light, emailed links to ancient Egyptian rites. His welterweight scars and smashed teeth never bothered me. Neither did his astral technology. I missed him when he slipped away in March.