July 9, 1990. Well past midnight. A sharp knock on the door at 8 Strawberry Drive startled everyone awake. From my room I heard Dad's sleepy feet shuffling and sliding down the pine hallway and the front deadbolt unlock.
Sheriff's Deputy: "Does Daniel R. Nichols live here?"
Dad: "Yes he does. What's this about."
Deputy: "There's been an accident."
Sixteen years later, I wrote a series of songs about my brother Daniel and what happened to him that night and over the course of the rest of that turbulent year. I strummed through them all in front of a microphone, but the tape has since been lost. On April 27 and 28 of 2012 I sat down in our empty house on Strawberry Drive and played them all again.