Tyler was holed up in our bedroom the day after New Year’s with two glocks and seven boxes of ammo. It took a swat team and a laser aimed at his chest to get him out of the house.

We are not very religious people. We don’t go to church—not for Easter, not for Christmas, not for anything except for those three times when we got married and had one kid baptized and then another. We certainly had no plans to go to church while vacationing in Seoul. But there we were at a park when a woman offered me a packet of wet wipes.

After Granny developed Alzheimer’s disease, she began hallucinating. Her phantoms ranged from people having sex in our backyard, to the mafia having a sit-down in her bedroom, to a young man’s funeral occurring in our closet. "He had AIDS," she whispered to me after one of these funerals. I had stopped taking her to church or to places with large crowds, because her hallucinations and delusions followed her. I never knew when she was going to start yelling at the invisible people.