Grant hesitated just long enough to make my pulse jump. “She’s alive, ma’am, but the doctors don’t believe she can return home alone right now.”
Then Officer Adams held out an envelope. It was addressed to Ethan in neat blue handwriting.
“Before our unit took her away,” Grant said, “she made it very clear that this should be given to your son.”
I stared at it. “Why would she leave something for Ethan? We don’t have a relationship with her… other than being neighborly, I mean.”
“She’s alive, ma’am, but the doctors don’t believe she can return home.”
Grant shifted. “I can’t answer that, ma’am, but she confirmed that he was the last person known to spend time with her yesterday. We thought it was best to bring it directly to you, given he’s a minor.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Yesterday.
My son had come home at dusk with white paint on his hoodie, mud up both shins, and a splinter in his thumb.
“Mom, do we still have leftover turkey?” he asked, heading for the fridge.
I stared at him. “You were out there all day, and that’s your first sentence?”
“We thought it was best to bring it directly to you.”
He looked down at his shoes. “I got hungry around fence post three.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “You look like you lost a fight with a hardware store.”
“Only a small one,” he said. Then he held up his thumb. “Can I get the tweezers after I eat?”
Earlier, he’d spotted Mrs. Whitmore in her yard, trying to lift a broken honte panel the storm had torn loose.
“Can we get boards, Mom? I can help fix it,” he’d said.
“Ethan, you’re fourteen. Do you even know what you’re doing?”
He looked down at his shoes.
