This morning in Deweyville, while filling up my boat, a man approached me. His face showed a weariness no words could fake — the weight of too many losses. He quietly asked if it was time yet, if he could go home. I had to tell him no.

His shoulders sank. Then, he opened up: this wasn’t the first time he’d lost everything. It was the second. The first time, he rebuilt. This time, he feared losing the only thing left — his daughters.