William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“Where is Barnaby, Owen?” I asked, looking back at the sofa.
Owen rubbed his left wrist with his right hand, his fingers twisting against the skin, but he kept his mouth tightly shut.
“He must have left it in the bedroom,” Marsha said, her hand resting on Owen’s shoulder with a firm, downward pressure.
“I will go look,” I said, moving toward the stairs.
“No need,” Sue said, entering from the kitchen with three white mugs on a tray. “I already cleared the upstairs. Everything is in his bag by the door.”
She set the tray on the coffee table with a hard click, the black coffee sloshing against the rims.
“We should get moving,” Marsha said, picking up the blue backpack from the floor near the umbrella stand. “The traffic on the interstate will be heavy by now.”
I picked up the bag, which felt unusually light, and walked out to the driveway while Marsha led Owen down the steps.
The boy walked with his head down, his sneakers dragging against the concrete.
