Cole Barrett was born in a house like that. Wooden, painted white, with a father who spoke little and judged a lot. His mother, Donna, kissed him on the forehead before bed. His father, Ray, taught him how to shake hands properly, how to look men in the eye, how not to soften his voice.

“The world doesn’t forgive weak boys,” he used to say.

And before he was even a man, Cole learned to fear weakness more than violence.