By Jonathan Ryan Patterson I grew up in Tucson, Arizona. Desert dirt, dirt bike exhaust, and Bible pages. That was my dad’s world. By default it became mine too. Weekends weren’t optional. You were either in a Bible study, doing yardwork, or heading out into the desert on a dirt bike or a dune buggy with boots that were going to come back dirty. Sometimes all three before noon. He didn’t negotiate it. He didn’t explain it. That’s just what we did. He was tough. Strong-willed

By Jonathan Ryan Patterson My great grandfather didn’t make a big moment out of it. While he was dying, among the things he said, he mentioned to Wiley, my grandfather’s brother, that the Patterson name wasn’t the bloodline name. Not a confession. Not a scene. Just something that came out when time got short and the truth got heavier than the secret. Wiley carried it and eventually it found my grandfather. So he went looking. What he found was in an attic in Jackson, Tennesse