He couldn’t finish.
“He collapsed at the apartment yesterday afternoon,” Renata said. “Alone. He’d been skipping sessions since the move. He didn’t want Wyatt asking where he disappeared to three mornings a week.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “The doctors say he’s running out of time. Weeks, maybe. Not years.”
My son had locked our front door because he was afraid of this family.
And the whole time, the boy he was afraid of had been protecting him.
Behind me, someone drew in a sharp, ragged breath.
I turned.
Wyatt was standing in the hallway. He was wearing the same coat from Sunday. His car keys were still in his hand. He must have seen Renata’s name on my phone and followed me.
He’d heard all of it.
He was staring past me, into Room 409, at the boy hooked to the humming gray machine.
Ezra’s eyes opened. He saw Wyatt in the doorway, and his whole face changed — joy, then fear, then something like shame.
