cages as though my grief were simply another empty surface.
In Austin’s photo, his fingers gripped the folder hard enough to bend it.
Chloe stood behind him without her phone.
Her sunglasses were pushed into her hair, her mouth slightly open. For once, she looked frightened instead of irritated.
Austin called again.
This time, I answered but waited for him to speak.
“Mom,” he said, sounding more like the ten-year-old boy I remembered.
“What is this?”
In the background, the court woman told him to move away from the table.
