I looked toward Brandon sleeping on the couch.
“Will you tell me about Ryan?”
“No.”
I nearly hung up.
Then Christopher added, “Not yet.”
I gripped the phone.
“What does that mean?”
“It means there are things you do not understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Five thousand dollars a week could change my children’s lives.
It could move us out of that apartment.
Pay medical bills.
Put food in the refrigerator.
Give Emma new shoes.
Give Brandon the inhaler the doctor recommended.
And maybe, just maybe, staying near Christopher would give me answers.
“What time?”
“Four.”
I returned.
Christopher acted as if nothing had happened.
That almost made it worse.
For three days, we barely spoke beyond what was necessary.
I helped him bathe.
Dress.
Eat.
Transfer to bed.
