“We worked too hard to let this slip away, Arthur,” I said, watching him stare at the television screen in the corner.
The local news anchor was talking about a storm system moving across the lake, but Arthur did not seem to hear.
He kept his eyes on the screen, his shoulder turned away from me.
“The tickets are non-refundable after Tuesday,” I said.
Arthur rubbed his face with both hands, his skin dry and raspy against his palms.
“The boy isn’t back,” he said.
“He has his own key under the porch if he comes home while we’re asleep,” I said.
The orange plastic chairs in the hallway of Oakhaven Hospital were cracked at the seams, showing grey foam underneath.
It was eleven past eleven when Dr. Gable walked through the double doors, his green scrubs dark with sweat at the collar.
“He was passenger in a pickup that rolled on Route Four,” the doctor said, looking directly at Arthur.
