His life was on the line.

Strung from tree to tree, across the back yard, his priorities blew in the wind. There were his coat and slacks, accompanied by an assortment of lively, but respectable, neckties. There was his underwear. There was his hockey jersey.

There were his one-year-old's Big Boy Diapers, and his wife's sweaters, and his dog's blanket.

And there was the note.

He slowly, thoughtfully pulled in the line, taking the items down, one by one. When he reached the paper, his heart caught in his throat.

"If you had another chance," it said to him, "would you hang these things up in this order again?"

And he sat down at the back door, and placed his finger in the dirt, where his son used to play, and wrote the word "No."