‘And that’s exactly why you’re a great cop.’

‘Because I love my son?’

Ira sat again, picking up his toast.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Because you care so much about someone that isn’t you.’

She went over and kissed her husband, hugging him, staying like that for a long time. Afterwards, she washed her bowl, went in and saw Ethan again – pausing beside his bed, taking him in, his size, his vulnerability; the fan not directly on him but moving his hair nonetheless – and then, finally, she left.

The Hollywood Freeway was already busy as she wound her way south, a blur of grey concrete and bright headlights. A cassette played music, the a/c was cranked all the way up to polar, and for a while it kept her focused. But then the monotony of the journey began to kick in and her mind began to loop back again, to Ira, to Ethan.

Was it normal to worry this much about your kids?

Or was her experience exacerbated by being a cop? Was it worse because she turned up at crime scenes and read reports every day of every week that made her skin crawl?

She didn’t know for sure, but she knew something: Ethan was only eighteen months old, and he’d barely even scratched the surface in terms of what was to come. Jo wasn’t even close yet to the kind of worry that buries itself in your bones, the throb of pain when your kid was really sick, the frustration of loving them and watching them make bad decisions, the impotence of knowing they were grown up, maybe many miles from you, and there was nothing you could do to protect them. Maybe it got easier over time or maybe it got harder, but she knew, eventually, it was up to the kids to keep themselves safe. It was up to them to lock their doors at night when a monster was terrorizing their city.

Because, in the end, it didn’t matter how much you loved a person.

Eventually, you had to let them go.

Part Three

THE STUDENT

I used to think I knew what silence was.

But now I realize I never had a clue.

In this place, it feels like I’m outside of time. I don’t know where I am because all I can see is blackness. I can’t make out an exit. Sometimes I think I can hear what might be the hum of a generator, and sometimes, on the edges of my sleep, the sound of it seems to hang in the air: this low, long buzz, like an insect. But mostly it’s just this.

This place.

This darkness.

This silence.