“Right, right. Anyway…” John rambles loosely about our agenda. My wife absently stirs the greens. She glances over her shoulder at me. Our eyes meet and it’s everything at once. Why we hate my job right now, what we fear for our son. She stretches her free hand toward me and I take it. A lifeline.

The front door lock clicks and the door opens. Relief floods me. I squeeze my wife’s hand gently. He’s home. We’re okay. Another day behind us, clean and safe, with all three of us home together for dinner. Nothing we take for granted anymore.

“Will, baby?” my wife calls to him. “Wash up for dinner.”

There’s no answer but the shuffle of sneakers in the hallway, the slamming of a bedroom door. My wife’s face crumples. Her relief drains away, replaced by annoyance.

Will’s such a good kid. Loving and cheerful, artistic and brave. But lately there’s no reaching him. He’s pulled so far away from us.

John’s still talking. “Steve? What do you think?”

“Um—many thoughts. Let me reflect on things and give you a report in the late morning tomorrow.”

“Which way do you think it will break?” John’s voice goes energetic. I have nothing left for him. Nothing left for any of it tonight.

I press my palm more firmly against my wife’s. She looks at me. Everything at once.

“The way it always breaks,” I answer.

Our job only gets harder from here.

EVA

Tomorrow or the next day, we find out if Daddy has to go to court.

Today, we have new clothes, new toys, and the promise of a family vacation. “You’re still on leave,” Mommy says. “We could get away for a while.”

“I can’t leave the state,” Daddy says. “It will look like I’m running.”

“There’s plenty to do nearby.”

“You’re pushing it,” Daddy says. “Give it a rest.”

“Can we move? I’m never, ever going back to school.” I sit with my arms crossed. I’m suspended for a week for fighting. It won’t be long enough.

“Well, aren’t you two in a mood.” Mommy huffs over to the computer. For a while there is no sound except a lot of clicking.

“Look,” Mommy says. We look. She shows us some websites. Museums. Restaurants. “And this is where we could stay.”

A tall, shiny hotel with room service, movies on the TV, and a nice swimming pool.

“Jesus Christ,” Daddy says. “It’s how much per night?”

Mommy turns away from the computer. “I will not let you punish yourself for the rest of your life. Not for one tragic accident.” The words drop like anvils. Tragic. Accident. I picture them falling off a cliff, like in a Road Runner cartoon. Mommy is like the coyote, trying to kill the bad feelings that are running all over the house.

Mommy spins back to the computer. “I’m booking it.”

“No.” Daddy drops onto the couch, head in his hands. “How am I supposed to just…” His voice zips off, leaving a cloud of dust. The Road Runner is alive and well.