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It's been five years since I lost my family in that fire, but I still dream about it at night, waking violently with a half-formed scream on my lips. You see my beautiful wife and 3 daughters died that night because of me. If I had been there, I could have made sure they got out, but I had decided to go to the bar with my buddies. When I arrived home, half drunk, the flames had already engulfed most of the house, and firemen were everywhere. I tried to get in the house, but they held me back and told me there was nothing I could do.

Seeing those flames coming out of my house sobered me up real quick. I fell to my knees screaming their names and praying to a God I had mostly ignored that He would save my family, even though I knew it was too late. They were dead, and it was my fault.

Now five years later, here I am, still a drunkard and living on the streets. I lost everything that night, my family, my home, my faith, and even my sanity. I lived in a bottle till I had driven off any friends and even family that might have comforted me in my grief.

Lately, though, I have begun to think about this life I'm living, or not living. I know God wouldn't want me now after all I've done though. I have nothing left to offer anyone, and I don't know if I can go on. In fact, today's the day. I have a gun I found in the alley. I welcome death and relief from my constant nightmares. I figure burning in hell for eternity is about punishment enough for what I've done.

Yes, today's the day. You see it's Thanksgiving Day, the anniversary of the day I lost it all. It's fitting that I, too, would die on this day.

A man speaks to me, interrupting my reverie. I try to focus on his words, but the fog is so thick. I think he wants me to go to the shelter with him and eat Thanksgiving dinner. Yes, that's what he wants. He takes my arm and, in my fog, I let him lead me along, unresisting as the phrase "Dead man walking, his final meal" shoots back and forth through my battered brain.

The man fills my plate and leads me to one of many long tables filling the room. Asking, "Do you mind if I pray?" he shoots of a prayer of thanksgiving without a pause. As I fill my mouth with food I can't even taste, the man continues to talk to me. At first, I try to ignore him and stay in my grief induced stupor, but soon his words start breaking through the fog.

He just told me God loves me! Boy, if he knew what I'd done, he'd never tell me that. God couldn't possibly love me. I can't even love me.

"Listen,

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