My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

William set the phone down and walked out to the backyard. Cicadas rasped in the trees. A sprinkler clicked somewhere two houses over. Normal life spread around him with unbearable indifference. He imagined Owen in Sue’s house eating at a rigidly set table, trying not to cry, trying to read adult faces for danger. He imagined Sue correcting the way he held a fork, Marsha watching with approval. He imagined nothing worse than that because his mind still resisted giving shape to the darkest possibilities, as though naming them might make him complicit in not having acted sooner.

At 6:47 p.m., Marsha texted: Staying for dinner. Mom wants to talk. I’ll Uber home.

He called immediately. It went to voicemail.

He didn’t leave a message. He just stood in the kitchen holding the phone, listening to the beep that opened empty space and then cut off.

At 7:15, he called Sue’s house. No answer.

At 7:23, he tried again. Still no answer.