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.”
