And maybe that is exactly the problem.
That night, my daughter called again.
“I saw the comments,” she said.
“Don’t read them.”
“I was going to tell you that.”
“I’m old, not stupid.”
“You are old and stubborn.”
“That too.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “Do you think you did the right thing?”
I looked out my kitchen window.
Across the street, a porch light flickered on.
Somewhere in town, Kinsley was probably crying in her room.
Somewhere else, Silas was probably being whispered about.
And somewhere beyond our neighborhood, a man in a black sedan knew that people like him could sit behind tinted glass while the whole town fought each other instead.
“I think,” I said slowly, “I did one right thing and one late thing.”
Mara was quiet.
“That’s honest.”
“It hurts.”
“Honest usually does.”
I didn’t sleep much.
At 4:40 the next morning, I woke from a dream where every house on Kinsley’s street had its number glowing like a target.
