So I drove him to Laura’s sister, Joan, in Pflugerville. I showed Joan the index card. She read it once, then turned it face-down on her counter and pressed it flat with her palm, like she was trying to keep it from getting up.
“He stays as long as he needs,” she said. “Years, if it comes to that.”
Then she looked at me, and I braced myself.
“You should have seen it, Russ.”
“I know.”
“No. I mean it. You should have.” She let out a long breath. “But you’re seeing it now. Laura would want me to say that part too.”
Mason was already in her backyard, throwing a tennis ball for her old Lab, Biscuit. He laughed when the dog missed. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh in what I realized, with a sick feeling, had been months.
That afternoon, I filed a report with the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services. I gave the District Attorney’s office my photos, my Tulsa hotel receipts, and my hospital discharge papers from March.
