Editor’s note: This story is part of an ongoing Gazette series examining the rise of fentanyl in our community. This article contains a few strong words that could offend some readers.
Bradley’s room was quiet.
The Angel family, two parents, two children, and a cycle of cats and dogs, had lived in the same West End house since moving to Billings nearly 30 years ago.
At home on a March morning last year were Bradley and his younger sister, Katie. Outside, the morning was clear but cold, the temperature nearly freezing.
After graduating high school, Katie had briefly moved to California and then returned home to live with her mother and Bradley, her parents having separated in 2020.
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Katie was getting ready for work that morning. Her mother, Kristi, a postal carrier, was out delivering mail. Her father, Jon, a professional counselor, had moved to a home nearby that doubled as his office. Bradley, who was 24, was in his bedroom, the same one he’d slept in as a boy, a room full of trinkets he’d collected over his lifetime including the stuffed mouse he’d played with as a 5-year-old.