William swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the road because the rearview mirror had become unbearable. Every time he looked up and saw Owen’s face—flushed, wet, terrified, his little hands twisting his shirt into knots—he felt his resolve weaken into something close to panic. Beside him, Marsha sat angled toward the passenger window with one manicured hand resting on her thigh, as if this were an ordinary drive to an ordinary destination and not a slow march toward something William could not name but already hated.
“Stop encouraging it,” she said, her voice clipped and cool. “You make him worse every time you do that.”
William didn’t answer right away. His mouth felt dry. The air conditioner hummed weakly against the heat, but sweat still collected beneath the collar of his shirt. “He’s scared,” he said finally.
Marsha let out a short laugh with no amusement in it. “He’s dramatic.”