Evan was ten years old and normally kinetic, full of half finished sentences and racing thoughts, always jogging toward the car before he could finish telling his father about a science project or a new video game strategy, but tonight he moved carefully as if the ground itself might shift beneath him.
Grant felt the first tremor of dread before a word was spoken.
“Hey, buddy,” he called, stepping out of the SUV. “You doing okay?”
Evan’s smile was thin and brittle.
“Yeah, Dad.”
He did not run forward. He did not reach up for a hug.
Grant kept his tone light even as tension coiled in his chest. “Everything good this week?”
“Yeah,” Evan replied quickly. “I’m just sore.”
“Sore from what?”
Evan hesitated, eyes flicking back toward the duplex before returning to the pavement. “We were playing stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Sports.”
Grant knew his son well enough to understand that answer did not fit because Evan avoided organized sports with passionate consistency, preferring robotics kits and graphic novels over any ball field.
Grant opened the rear door of the SUV. “Alright, let’s head home.”