Then I started stuffing wet towels inside, still catching my breath from the race. My son stood next to me in his flip-flops, hair dripping onto his forehead, giggling about how I’d let him win by half a lap.
The man nodded back.
Then, suddenly, Ben went quiet behind me. His laughter just stopped mid-sentence, as if someone had pressed a button.
Then his little hand clamped around my wrist. I turned around.
“Daddy.”
“What, buddy?”
His eyes were locked on something across the room, and the smile had slid right off his face. His little face had gone pale and strangely serious.
I followed his gaze.
Ben went quiet behind me.
The man in his 50s stood four or five lockers down, his back turned, pulling on a dry T-shirt. His locker door hung open a couple of inches.
“Daddy,” Ben whispered again, pointing toward the man. “He has Mommy in there.”
