The pain in my father's eyes is a sort of memory seared so thoroughly that I will never forget it. There he was, aged 41, in the back of a police cruiser as I stand outside looking back at him, myself frozen in time. His sharp, deep blue eyes were not onlooking some boyish mishap of mine or expressing a sense of fatherly pride. He sat there, handcuffed, utterly defeated by life. Only moments earlier, on a cold, damp January 2007 day along the hills of East Tennessee, my father and I hastily packed whatever personal belongings we could salvage...