William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
Tucked between a crushed milk carton and a bundle of dried goldenrod was a small strip of red nylon with a silver buckle.
It was Barnaby’s collar, the little brass bell still attached to the ring, stuffed deep into the trash.
I pulled the collar out, the cold metal of the bell silent in my hand, and slid it into my trousers pocket.
I got into the driver’s seat and locked the doors, the heater beginning to blow lukewarm air against my ankles.
Marsha was already looking at her phone, her thumb sliding quickly across the screen.
“Everything fine out there?” she asked, not looking up.
“Just checking the tire,” I said, pulling away from the curb and turning onto the main road.
The silence in the back seat was absolute, a heavy weight that filled the small space of the sedan.
“Owen,” I said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “Did you leave Barnaby at Grandma’s house?”
Owen did not look at me, his face pressed against the cold glass of the side window.
