William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I set the folder on the green leather blotter and opened the first page.
The top document was a multi-page enrollment contract, completed in Marsha’s neat, upright handwriting.
The client name was listed as Owen Edwards, age five, with his birthdate and medical history filled out in dark blue ink.
I adjusted my thin wire-rimmed glasses, my eyes scanning down the page to the financial section.
The total program fee was listed as twenty-four thousand dollars, with a mandatory, non-refundable deposit of twelve thousand dollars due upon registration.
The carbon receipt I had found in the glove box of my car now had a clear, terrible purpose.
It was not a deposit for a local private kindergarten, as Marsha had claimed over her coffee cup on Saturday morning.
It was the non-refundable deposit for this unlicensed behavioral boot camp, paid in full three weeks ago.
I turned to the second page of the contract, where the intake guidelines were printed in small, single-spaced type.
The text described a remote facility located in the panhandle of Idaho, miles from the nearest town.
