William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
There was only the soft click of plastic toys landing on the floor and the occasional hum of a passing car on the street below.
Owen looked up at me, his brown eyes clear and wide under his messy fringe of brown hair.
“The green dog is the king,” he said.
“Is he a good king?” I asked.
“He is very nice,” Owen said. “He lets the dinosaurs eat the yellow grass.”
“That is a very fair king,” I said.
He reached out and patted the green toy dog on its head, his small fingers brushing the soft flannel.
“He does not have a collar,” Owen said.
“He does not need one,” I said. “He is safe here.”
Owen looked down at his own left wrist, where the red finger marks had faded into smooth, pale skin.
He did not rub it today.
Instead, he picked up the green dog and made it leap over a blue plastic dinosaur, landing it softly on the wooden floor where the sunlight was brightest.
The sun was low now, casting a warm, orange glow across the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
