I stopped in the doorway.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Looked like money.”
“It was.”
“How much?”
He shrugged.
“My pay.”
“Why is it in your backpack?”
“I’m keeping it safe.”
I almost laughed.
“You have a drawer.”
“I know.”
He wouldn’t look at me.
That bothered me.
Still, I let it go.
A week later, he came home nearly two hours late.
His shoes were covered in dried mud.Footwear
There was a tear near the shoulder of his sweatshirt.
I stood from the couch.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Evan.”
He looked down at himself.
“I fell walking home.”
“Where?”
“Near the park.”
I pointed at his sleeve.
“You tore your shirt falling?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s your paycheck?”
His eyes dropped.
“Somewhere safe.”
That phrase again.
I studied him.
“Evan, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
I was beginning to hate that word.
Nothing.
Nothing meant there was something.
I just didn’t know what yet.
Then one Saturday afternoon, my phone rang.
Mr. Alvarez.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
“Ma’am?”
His voice sounded tense.
“We need to talk about Evan.”
I stood from the kitchen table.
“Did he do something?”
A pause.
“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.”
My stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
Another pause.
Then he asked:
“Do you know what Evan does with every paycheck?”
I frowned.
“He’s saving for a bike.”
Silence.
“Isn’t he?”
Mr. Alvarez exhaled.
“Ma’am, almost everything that boy has told you about that money is a lie.”
Before I could respond, I heard Evan shouting somewhere in the background.
“Please! Don’t tell my mom!”
Something crashed.
Metal hitting tile.
I shot to my feet.
“Evan?”
Mr. Alvarez came back on the line, breathing hard.
“Get here.”
“What happened?”
“Your son tried to do it again.”
The line disconnected.
I didn’t even grab my purse properly.
I took my keys and ran.
When I reached the diner, the first thing I noticed was a large metal bus tub overturned on the floor.
Plastic cups had rolled beneath tables.
A stack of plates leaned dangerously against one chair.
Evan stood in the middle of it.
His apron was soaked.
One sleeve was twisted near the shoulder.
His face was red.
Across from him stood Cal, one of the older men who worked mornings at the diner.
Cal was holding one end of a white envelope.
