And now he had been sitting in a back room with that man every afternoon for six weeks, while I drove around buying groceries and thinking everything was fine.
When we got home, Sam went straight upstairs. I heard his door close. Not a slam. Just a quiet, final click, which was worse.
I didn’t make dinner. I sat in the car in the driveway with the engine off for almost an hour. The windows fogged up. The streetlights came on. My neighbor walked her golden retriever past twice and waved at me both times, and both times I waved back like everything was normal.
Finally, I called my sister.
Jen picked up on the second ring. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Greg’s back.”
There was a silence on the other end. “Back where?”
“At the rink. He works at the rink, Jen. He’s on the maintenance crew. He sharpens skates and drives the Zamboni. And Sam has been skipping practice to go sit with him for six weeks.”
