“Has Nathan been acting strange?” she asked.
I pictured his exhausted face after each weekend. The way he rushed straight into the shower. How he’d stopped telling me what they’d done.
“I thought he was just growing up.”
By 4 a.m., we were about to call the police.
Then, at 4:37, a key turned in my front door.
Nathan.
I jumped up. “Where have you been?! Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through?!”
He stood in the hallway. Alone. No Cole.
“Mom, I—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me! Two months! Where have you been spending your nights?!”
He slowly raised his head.
And for the first time, I really looked at him.
My sixteen-year-old son was gray with exhaustion, swaying on his feet. His hands were raw and cut, the knuckles scabbed, two fingers wrapped in a dirty bandage. His clothes were soaked through and he smelled of bleach and cold water and something industrial. He’d lost weight I hadn’t noticed him losing.
