Family Secrets is a production of iHeartRadio.

This episode contains discussion of substance abuse.

Listener discretion is advised.

A river is a body running.

The first time I found my brother overdosed, he looked holy, a thing not to be touched.

Yellow halo of last night's dinner, his skin blanched, blue fresco patron saint of smack.

A cop flustered, tugged up his shorts, plunged a needle into a pale thigh.

He hissed awake like a soda can.

The paramedic spoke softly in his ear like a lover, asked him what color yellow and red make?

What is the difference between a lake and a river?

In the corner I whittle, You've syringe into an instrument only I can play.

That's Stephen Espada Dawson, poet, editor, teacher of creative writing, and poet Laureate of the State of Wisconsin.

His first collection of poems, Late to the Search Party, was recently published.

Stephens is a story of the legacy of a disappearance, an absence, and the ways we can rebuild our own sense of self and purpose in the face of unresolved loss.

I'm Danny Shapiro, and this is family secrets, the secrets that are kept from us, the secrets we keep from others, and the secrets we keep from ourselves.

Tell me about the landscape of your childhood, your early life in East.

La So East l A.

I still consider to be one of my two homes, and it was a little chaotic for the most part.

I was with my mom, a single mom, and my brother, and we were bouncing around a lot from place to place, either because we couldn't afford something anymore, or we were evicted or these kinds of things.

A very unstable place to grow up.

I remember we were once living in someone's garage, and honestly, you know how nostalgia operates.

It's sometimes a little confusing.

You can feel very fond of memories that were objectively difficult.

But the kind of closeness that a garage sort of states is that you and your mother and your brother basically sleeping on top of each other while the owner of the house is warming up his car in the morning, and your willed side of the garage isn't entirely sealed from the top, so you have just exhaust pouring from the top of the wall into your living space every morning.

And I think that is an image that really sticks with me from my childhood.

But also just like these intense moments of transition, they really just resonate with me.

Gas stations and hotels and airports, these places that are the in between.

When thinking about my family, at the fringe of their existing, they always feel very like a bell that is a familiar sound for me.

Did you have a sense when you were a little kid that is moving around and the precarity oft did it feel like this is the way life is, this is the way that everybody lives, or did it feel like distinctly yours?

It definitely felt like mine because I was constantly being introduced to characters and neighbors that had more histories on the block than we did.

But it also necessitated being able to make friends really quickly, and in that way, we were bouncing around, but also like continually building our community.

My mom was often working two or three jobs, and she would either employ my brother to babysit me.

My brother who's significantly older than me in nine years, or the community.

I was very much a latch key kid.

I sometimes even though food was an issue.

Maybe at home, I was sometimes eating two or three dinners around the neighborhood.

So there can be a lot of abundance in a childhood where there is some instability to and i'd point back to the community for that.

So your mom was a teenager when she had your brother.

Right, Yes, Yeah, she was very young, and she had him at this home in California that I still think exists.

It's called Saint Lucie's Home for Unwed Mothers or something like that.

This is a very Catholic institution where your family sends you when you are pregnant before marriage or they're trying to hide you away from the community.

A pretty dark place for her in her memory.

But yeah, she actually gave birth to him in the parking lot of that place before going to the hospital.

I think that I was always jealous of their closeness.

They had a very precarious relationship, and as you can see, it started out precarious, but also he got in a lot of trouble growing up.

Trouble can also lead to closeness because there's a kind of like reaching out that has to happen.

Yeah, and trouble also has a kind of energy to it that draws people to it in a way, I think totally.

Yeah.

And despite that, especially in my younger years, we were all close.

I remember mom.

One of my again those memories that feel like a sort of anchor point in my childhood is her growing out her hair very long and then selling it so that she could afford Christmas for us.

And she brought us super soakers, which was the thing that we wanted more than anything.

And I remember, and this is children are children, and they don't see the work and the labor and the value of these tendernesses.

But I remember we filled them with soda so that they would get really sticky when we sprayed the neighbor kids.

And what happens when you do that is that they break really quickly because you're coming up the insides, right.

But yeah, that is also like a fond, complicated memory of us not understanding the way that she cared for us, with this sort of like labor that was involved.

He didn't know his father.

I didn't know my father.

And I think that when you don't have an immediate father figure, you start to see father figures in your older brother or in any kind of boy role model for you, which I think can be complicated, especially when your older brother starts becoming an addict and you want it to be just like him.

I think that when I was very young and he was still young, I really looked up to him.

He was known in the neighborhoods where we lived.

He was infamous.

He got into a lot of trouble.

He was known in the court systems there.

The funniest thing is because our last name is Dawson, which was a very uncommon name for our neighborhoods, especially in East Los Angeles.

The neighborhood always referred to him as Jawson, and they would refer to me as Dawson's brother.

I think it's funny but also points to the fact that we are.

I'm living in his shadow a little bit in these neighborhoods, and I didn't really see a problem there yet.

He was definitely one of my first sort of role models, and he was one of my first teachers.

He taught me so much, but also just how to be scrappy in a scrappy world.

I remember one of our first gigs together was pretending to be guests at hotels.

Again, this theme of transition here a guest at hotels so that we could get free continental breakfast.

Right, So we would go in and take the elevator up and then walk around and take the stairs back down, wave to the front desk people who are certainly not paid enough to care about this at all, and then we would get free breakfast in the morning.

She taught me a lot about confidence and how to feed yourself and get what you needed from where you're at.

One of the lifts that my brother taught us was you could get unlimited free samples at a Sam's Club or Costco.

You just have to find a family that looked like you and nobody could stop you.

Right, you are just skateboarding outside of Sam's Club or Costco, waiting for some group to blend in with, and you'd go inside with them, take a tour around the whole facility and get your ten samples of whatever food they were offering, go back outside and rinse, and repeat.

Two hours later, and it was a whole sort of group of kids that all look different, and we'd all just wait and be like, hey, Alejandro, they kind of look like you.

You should go with them now.

Yeah, and again, very fond, harmless, highly recommend.

It's striking me too listening to you that there's a theme of belonging and not belonging, like when you're talking about Sam's Club and being like, just nobody's going to really pay attention.

We can just we can tag along, we can blend in with these people, but we're not actually of them totally.

Yeah, And that was again a big part of the neighborhoods that we grew up in, is that this is a big thing in Mexican culture too, which is just you have ten cousins and only two of them are your blood cousins, right, or another aid ar just from the neighborhood, or your family goes to church with their family or whatever it is.

But it feels like blood right, And when you are constantly losing folks in your family, it VECs to question what family even means really.

I did have another sort of father figure growing up, a stepfather, Santiago.

He grew up with fourteen brothers and sisters in very rorld, Mexico, and so he was over children because of that, and we were never close.

Him and my brother were never close.

And it's difficult to say, but by the time that we are done talking today, Danny.

It will probably be more words than him and I ever said to each other.

So even though he was this sort of important factor in my life, he was also not very present.

How old were you when Santiago entered your life?

I think I was three or four.

He was actually one of our maintenance men at some building that we lived in, and yeah, him and my mom fell in love.

And he also was the person that started to move to Colorado because he had another family and that family was moving to Colorado.

That's we're also more work, was so he started that and we followed him.

Stephen is twelve when his family moves to Colorado.

Brian, his brother, is a young adult, and in his young adulthood, Brian's behaviors have gone from basically harmless and fun to fairly insidious and worrying.

Sometimes often he simply flees.

He starts disappearing for days, weeks, sometimes a couple months at a time, and he keeps on getting in more trouble, now going to jail for the things that he's doing.

He starts stealing cars and things like that, and he's really good at it, but he's still again struggling to survive.

I remember catching him, the sucking down calories from like condiment packets that he had in his coat and things like that.

I remember there were these programs at the local mall where you could go in and you could volunteer to be like a test subject for a supplement or like a skincare or whatever, and they would pay you one hundred dollars to report back in a week or whatever.

And he would do this at three, four or five different malls, and he would look awful, like he was just this guinea pig, like his skin would be turning purple, and just terrible things.

I would run into him in the wild.

I remember my mom and I we would walk to go get groceries, and we saw him sleeping under a loading dog, and my mom pulled me away and we kept on walking and we took a different route home, and we never talked about it.

It was the silences that we never really acknowledged, still to this day and again that is also one of the reasons I was jealous of their closeness because her and I never really had that.

We had a lot of silences and trying to make some meaning of implication, like what is implied here?

What do you think that was about for your mom.

Was she trying to protect you.

Did it feel like in a way she was trying to hold that silence or that secret kind of at bay or was she also trying to hold it at bay from herself.

Yeah, I think that's a great question.

I think that a little bit of both.

I think she really regrets having my brother, not necessarily when she was young, but when she didn't have the resources to really help him grow up or the stability right to help him grow up.

So I think that a lot of his things, like his addiction and him getting in trouble, were things that sometimes she puts on herself.

And so I think that turning away is sure to protect me in that moment, but also to shield her a little bit.

And yeah, it's a complicated little thing.

Well, and she also she lied about your brother's whereabouts to people and soft pedaled what was going on understandably, But was that out of a kind of protection or what do you think that was?

Yeah, my brother when he was either away for a long time or when he was spending time in jail or spending time in rehab, my mom would tell the neighbors or tell the family that he was off doing various things.

Maybe he was at a trade school working to be common electrician, or he had joined the military, or all these weird everything that wasn't the truth.

Honestly, this is.

So often what families do to protect ourselves.

We keep secrets.

We lie in the name of love.

We believe there are things better left unsaid than to tell the unvarnished, difficult truth.

We ask ourselves what would that serve?

After all, maybe things will get better, Maybe no one needs to know during this period of time, when you're twelve, thirteen, fourteen, there are these long periods where he's gone.

What did that feel like and what did you know at that point?

At one point you mentioned that he'd come back and leave gifts for you, like he'd leave offerings or a trace of himself in some way.

But you're a kid and you had been so deeply connected to him.

What did it feel like when he would vanish and when he would return.

Yeah, it became fairly normal in my life for him to leave and come back.

But again, I am still trying to figure out what it means to be a person and a man in the world, and so I am really eager for still for something that looks like a father.

And so when he makes a return, either I wake up and he's sleeping on my bedroom floor, or I wake up and I find that he's been there because he leaves gifts for me.

I'm really excited, honestly to see him.

It really does, upon looking back at it, feel like that narrative that you see in popular media where you have this like deadbeat dad that the kids are really excited to see because they don't understand the sort of like insidiousness in the gaps right.

It does feel like that now, But in real time I was just happy to have him when I did, and he would leave me things.

And this is actually like more significant than it seems, because at one point he was fully addicted to heroin, and he's giving me things that he could otherwise sell to get more heroin.

So this is still significant.

I knew he loved me because he stole things for me, because he gave me things he could have used to fuel his addiction.

I remember one birthday he admitted that he stole this telescope from a kiosk at a mall, and that sort of makes its way into the posh collection.

All these things that my brother have given me.

But most often they were trinkets of a teenage life.

Right, you'd have like fireworks, or you'd have loose cigarettes, or you have playboys and hustlers and silly things that he thought that a teenage boy must need.

Sometimes just really random things like these were, by the way, always in my dresser, So whenever i'd wake up and I knew he'd be in my room, I would go to my dresser, and sometimes just there were a bunch of scribbled notes in cursive that just made no sense.

They are barely sentences.

One time, which was an especially traumatic and eye opening morning, he's in the room, he's not waking up.

I rushed the dresser and it's entirely full of empty glass bottles, and they were obviously liquor bottles, and I couldn't make sense of them.

But I knew that my mom would be really upset if she had found them, So I snucked downstairs to grab a trash bag, and I very carefully, really methodically so they wouldn't clink together, put them in this trash bag and went to throw them in the community dumpster.

And when I came back, I was so proud of myself for having saved him from my mom's anger over that that I was trying to wake him up and even shake him awake because he wasn't responsive to me, and he just sprung up and he hit me in the face, and I was knocked out for a period of time.

And when I woke up, he was in the shower, and I was really upset and angry, and I wanted to unleash my mom's wrath at that point on him, so I immediately go to her room and wake her up and tell her everything that had happened.

And we come back to my room and he is climbing out of the window with just a towel around his body, and he jumped off the two story window onto the ground, and you can see his wet and bloody and dirty footprints trail behind him, and he just disappears.

And I think that was a really major That was a major turning point in my teenage years, because I knew that there was a problem that we couldn't deny anymore, and I knew that the family wasn't enough to help him on a path towards being himself again.

At that point.

Do you think you knew that he was an addict, or could you have named it, or you just knew that that you didn't know how to that.

No one need seemed to be on help.

I was a teenager, and of course I had experience with drugs and things like that, and my own life and my friend groups and things like that.

But I couldn't point out heroin or I couldn't point out the other things that he was taking.

So I knew he had a drug problem, but I didn't know what it was or to what extent.

Really.

I was there though, in the living room, we'd get a phone call on the landline and he was calling to tell my mom happy Birthday or Happy Mother's Day, or Merry Christmas, and they were on the wrong dates, like just months apart.

I was there when we got those halls from the jails, and I was there when I remember a sheriff coming to our door with my brother and it was raining and dark outside, and I will never forget this sort of silhouette of them and the door as he forced my brother to take off his shoes so he could point to my brother's toes where he had been injecting between his toes, which is a thing that attics do so that you can hide the injection spot so it's not so obvious in the crook of your arm.

And yeah, I remember this, sheriff wanted to date my mom.

And I remember how proud, how he felt like a superhero for not arresting my brother and for showing us how bad of shape he was in.

That's an image definitely that sticks out.

And at this point, is Santiago still in your lives or yeah.

He is actually at this point, at this exact point, he's working in Steamboat Springs, which is far away, so he basically stays there all week and then comes and lives with us on the weekend.

So he's present, but he's not.

And again we don't talk.

Him and my brother would sometimes get into fights, fist fights and things like that.

It was not a healthy sort of situation.

We'll be back in a moment with more family secrets.

Stephen's time in high school is impacted not only by Brian's frequent disappearances, but by a diagnosis his mother receives when he's a software.

So my mom discovers that she has breast cancer.

This is two thousand and seven.

This is October, right before Halloween.

I remember, and I remember being too old for tricker treating, but doing it anyway.

And I had this scream mask and the mask was very cool because it had a little pump that you could pump by hand and sort of blood would like rain down the face of it.

I remember just weeping uncontrollably while I'm going to people's houses that Halloween asking for candy and all they see is this two tall kid coming to them for candy bars and doing this sort of a face mask blood pump thing, while actually just crying underneath that.

This was just a year after my grandfather died from cancer.

When you hear a cancer diagnosis right after that, you think that you don't have any time left, when in fact, she survives, but it takes a huge toll on her.

She develops other cancers, the cancer moves from her breast to her ovaries, and then right now she has a small tumors in her brain.

But she has every single time, through chemo and radiation, able to get into remission.

And she has outlasted every single estimate from every doctor.

And I am lucky for that.

And also this is someone that is continually for the last two decades at the fringes of their existence, which is a hard place to be, a hard place to be for her, a hard place to be for myself too.

And she had been told that it was terminal.

Yeah, so that's a kind of all through nobody's terminal for twenty years.

But it becomes like this dagger or this sword that's kind of hanging over everything that I imagine just never went away, even in the years where she wasn't quite so much on the fringes.

Yes, in the same way that I was constantly waiting to get a phone call about my brother, about his body being discovered or from him, even I was also waiting to get a call that my mom had died.

And it still happens.

The way that technology even has made its way into this kind of trauma is you just either have to laugh at it or you have to cry because spam callers these days.

I live in Wisconsin now, which is a six TOZA area code, but I have my Colorado phone number still, and spammers they will take your current phone number, they'll use area codes like that to call you.

So I can't tell you.

Every single day, every week I get calls from my mom's area code, and it's just spam, But for a split second, I'm sure that it's the call.

Right now, my mom is in palliative care.

She's at the end of her journey, and she's living in a facility because she needs twenty four hour care.

I actually found out recently, certainly after writing this book, that my mom has been incubating this rumor that she has eight sons.

And the reason she's doing this is because they give her sort of special treatment, and that is like her sort of mythos around the facility.

But it also suggests that she has eight people that will be there taking care of her and sending her money when she needs it and talking to her case manager.

And it's just me.

You are eight sons.

I am not, and I do not have seven brothers.

And this was kind of a wild new thing that I learned just this year, and I'm thinking about who my seven brothers are.

Well, it's like another group that you don't belong.

To exactly exactly.

Stephen graduates high school in two thousand and nine.

He's the first of his family to finish high school.

Day Money graduation was the last time I saw my brother, and you know, if I'm being really generous about it.

And writing has been so important to me, writing through these feelings, coming to understand how I really feel, and what the shape of my family is and what it could be, and things like that.

I've come to sort of understand it as a kind of sweetness, even maybe like he just had to wait until I could accomplish the thing that no one else could in our Obviously from circumstance and challenge and things like that, I was the stable one because of their hard work and also their teachings and things like this.

I was the first to graduate high school.

I was the first to go to college and graduate college.

I was the first to go to grad school and graduate school.

But he disappeared in two thousand and nine, and this was not unique to us until he didn't come back until the summer ended, and there was no word, no sign until the summer ended, and we'd make phone calls to people that she knew in the neighborhood or even the drug dealers and things like that, and no one had heard from him.

I want to say that I was not a star student.

So yes, I did graduate high school, but not without my own unique struggles.

I missed class a lot, and my high school was actually a closed campus unless you had above a certain GPA.

I did not go to a very good school.

It was the kind of school where there was metal detectors and you'd have to get your back searched for weapons upon entering.

It's a school actually that has its own Wikipedia page for the amount of fighting that was in the school every year.

But I have this art teacher who would let us use her door that reached the outside to leave for lunch, which was not allowed.

But she was the first person I think that was an authority figure at that school that treated us like adults.

Right.

She didn't care if we didn't go to her class as long as the art projects that we did were done when they needed to be done right.

We would go to Kmart, which was the closest store to the school, and we would steal spray paint and we would try to get really good at graffiti and take photos of it for art class.

And she would allow that kind of thing because she had a more of a nuanced perspective of what art could be for people and what it might look like.

And when we left out of her door for lunch, we would go to only the places in the neighborhood that only spoke Spanish, because the dean of security would go out in his little golf cart to try to catch kids like us that we're leaving school, but he would never go into the places that we went because he could not speak Spanish.

And anyway, I did graduate high school, but I graduated in my own way.

I came home before anybody else so that I could erase the messages from school saying I hadn't been There's a way that I did adopt some things from my brother, and I just became better at it than him.

Though I wanted to live a different life, and it was certainly not poetry that I had in mind.

In fact, I wanted to be a doctor since my mom had her diagnosis.

I was going to throw myself into cancer research and be the person that makes the cure.

I was naive but well intentioned, and I wanted to do that.

But the creative world really called to me.

It started in high school when I would sneak into the library, which now I feel like our safe havens.

Every library I've ever been to has been just another home for me.

There's such an important place but where I went to school, you could get jumped afterwards for going into the library.

And I would sneak in and I would lift lines from Neruda, from other poets.

I love poets especially, and I would incorporate them into love letters and just bold face lie to the people that I gave them to, just oh, yeah, that's that's from me, that's from my heart to you, that you're the one, you know.

And I did that until I saw this poster in the library.

There wasn't even a poster from school, because that school would never fund this kind of thing.

But it was just from the libraryan himself.

It was a contest, a poetry contest where you could win an iPod and an iPod these things had just come out, and they were like hundreds of dollars, like two hundred and fifty three hundred dollars, something I could never afford.

And I did my best.

I wrote a poem.

I don't remember what the poem was, but I remember rhyming shoulders with boulders and feeling like incredible about myself, like this is apex poetry.

And I won the competition, and I found out that I was the only one in the school that submitted in the competition.

So yeah, that sort of evolved into sneaking out and doing open mics around the city and including again, this is my brother sneaking into sort of even the lighter aspects of my life.

But we would steal my then girlfriend's sisters car, her camaro and we would go in the middle of the night to these late night adult only open mics around downtown Denver, and it was a really healing thing.

And I was also again treated like an adult for the first time.

I was not an adult, but it really felt like it called to me.

There's another instance of that when I felt like this thing called to me, and that is I'm in college now and I am making an hour and a half commute to get to college, so about three hours of traveling every day.

And at this point I know I want to be a writer.

I am not necessarily sure I wanted to be a poet.

I didn't even know what that looked like.

I thought that poetry is just something you do on the side, it's a hobby.

But I knew that there were novelists.

I knew that there were people that could somehow magically make a living by writing books and I wanted to be that person.

I wanted to be the next best American novelists.

And I convinced myself, I can read all these books on the way on the train, but I suddenly get a lot of motion sickness.

I developed that immediately, and it ruins my plan.

But I learned that I could read poetry on the train because I could very quickly read half a page poem a page poem, and I could look into the horizon and I could resettle myself while thinking about what I just read, and then read the next page, which was not actually possible for pros because it takes up the whole page.

Lines are as long as possible.

And suddenly I'm reading two hundred books of poems a year and learning about where my voice fits into the discussion of poetry.

Who else is talking about what I want to write about.

It's such a beautiful example of the happy accidents in life, the gift of motion sickness.

Yeah, and also just thinking about me being scrappy and in high school and thinking about if I could see my eighteen nineteen twenty year old self getting motion sick and choosing and how I would bully myself at that age, but I do feel like it called to me.

And I learned that a poem could contain so much in such a small package, and that was really an illuminating thing.

A poem did not have to be a Hallmark card, it did not have to be a shakespeareance on it.

It could be so many different things.

We'll be right back.

Vanishing is its own very particular kind of absence.

There's no closure, no answer.

Grappling with this, along with the fact that his mother has been told time and time again that she's terminally ill, my central question comes to define Stephen's life.

How do you become a family of one?

When thinking about the question of how to be a family of one, I have come to the conclusion that there's no need to be as long as you can really develop your idea of what family is.

And I think it has actually been under my nose this whole time, which is the neighbor that feeds me dinner when I'm a kid and I don't have anywhere to go, and the friends that are not blood that I've made along the way, that have been often there for me more than blood.

My brother and I are only half related like blood, just doesn't matter that much.

I have been in this incredibly privileged position to build communities wherever I go, and to make life long friends and my partner well, and just this is the family that you get to choose.

And when your family is vanishing, you have to ask yourself how important blood really is.

The book has an epigraph that starts the collection, which is a whole is nothing but what remains around it.

And so I'm constantly asking myself what is left when the hole persists?

And I've just decided that's love and it doesn't have to come from the people that you were born with.

Stephen lives in Madison, Wisconsin now, where he teaches and writes and has a rich, full life.

And yet there is of course something unfinished, something that may always remain unfinished.

His brother's absence is something he carries.

Sometimes he sees someone who looks like Brian and feels the inner earthquake of what if.

But he is no longer searching.

He considers Brian's disappearance a closed investigation.

He's not seeking answers to unanswerable questions.

I still see him.

I found myself really gravitating towards works.

Unfortunately, there aren't a ton of poetry collections or novels or memoirs about missing people, especially in this specific context when you really don't know if he is missing by his choice or not.

But there are unfortunately many of those same genres about people that have taken their own life, and it is a sort of similar outcome where you have this sort of sudden disappearance that leaves more questions than answers.

If I this being different, there's no suicide letter, there's nothing like that.

I do feel again a lot of resonance with those stories, and similar to people who experienced that kind of loss, that kind of whole I do still see in my community people that sort of vaguely look like my brother, or look like my memory of him, which really gets more dull as the years go by.

Logically I understand that, let's see, he would be forty three now and he wouldn't look at all like the person I remember, but it happens.

I do see him in passers by, and I do see him as the bus driver, and I do see him watering the garden, and one time actually at a coffee shop here where I had just moved here.

As a poetry fellow at the university, and I'm having a really great little work date with my fellow fellows, and one of my friends, Yalitza, her landlord, comes into the coffee shop and he looks so much like my brother that I literally start uncontrollably weeping in public, and people are just like, what's going on.

So it does happen.

But along with the working out that comes with the book is also therapy and psychiatry and things like that.

And I've come to understand that the brother that I knew, whether or not his physical body is alive or not, or here or not, that person is dead.

And I am learning to grieve late that death.

And that's another reason why I have named the collection Late to the Search Party, because this is how grieving works, is it happens on its own timeline.

Here's Stephen reading from a poem in his extraordinary collection Late to the Search Party.

When you die, I'm convinced a bell will ring in some far place inside me.

You said you'd like to run one day in a field of baby's breath.

In your dreams, all the cellos are near and out of tune.

In my dreams, wind chimes spell a word I can't pronounce your death.

The wind.

I cannot point to it.

I can point to everything it moves.

Family Secrets is a production of iHeartRadio.

Molly Zacour is the story editor and Dylan Fagan is the executive producer.

If you have a family secret you'd like to share, please leave us a voicemail and your story could appear on an upcoming episode.

Our number is one eight eight eight Secret ero.

That's the number ero.

You can also find me on Instagram at Danny Rider.

And if you'd like to know more about the story that inspired this podcast, check out my memoir Inheritance.

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