Ryder

Friday came too fast.

Martha had called three times already that morning — once at breakfast, once while I was loading Lila’s bag into the trunk, and again just as I was about to start the car. Each time the same thing: “Don’t forget to bring her home today.” “I’m still at work.” “Your brother-in-law’s still on his trip, so it’s just me, remember.” And every time she circled back to the same question: “You said you had something to tell me?”

“Yeah,” I’d answered each time. “We’ll talk about it face-to-face. I’ll wait for you at your place.”

“Okay, that’s cool,” she’d said. “Please take care of my...