The day before Johnathan died there was an ice storm in Texas. The air was so cold you could see your breath. Icicles hung from every tree branch and rooftop, and the roads were so slick that schools were closed. The ice storm would be the reason our marriage paperwork was never signed. Johnathan had proposed to me six months earlier, and only days after receiving his execution date, he had tattooed my name across his left knuckles.
As the roads began to clear that morning, I piled in the car with Johnathan’s father and his best friend Devon, and we made the 300-mile drive to see him one last time. We stayed in a hotel near the prison death chamber where they had transported him. We checked in, bought alcohol and tried to drink ourselves away from reality, which was that a man we loved would be put to death the following night.