“I know you didn’t. I just feel like this is the best it’s ever going to be. I sort of opened up to this girl. And what, did her friend think we were going to kidnap them from the dance place or something?”

“I don’t know what people think, Stefan.” I got up and touched his shoulder lightly. I didn’t know what to do. He was an adult. I couldn’t sit him on my lap. I wondered if he would ever have a child and have to understand this delicate dance of the years, of approach and retreat, offer and hold back. I wanted to say, she’s shallow and a coward and she’s not worth it. But I’m a zealot. What, I thought, would Julie say? “I’m sorry that such an unkind thing happened to you. You must feel awful. I hope you won’t let the way you feel about this thing set the tone for all the other things to come.” I then made myself get up and pass by him where he sat, huddled and ashamed, up the stairs to my room, closing my door behind me as tears streamed into my mouth and every muscle fiber in me tensed with the desire to go back to him and say, I will make it better. Mom will make it better.

He was on a road where I couldn’t follow. He was on it alone.

He texted me the next morning from his truck. I am an advertisement for aspirin. Sorry. Really sorry.

Right after his came another text, an angry one. YOU WENT AND TALKED ABOUT IT AGAIN IN FRONT OF A WHOLE AUDITORIUM OF PEOPLE. I SAW IT IN THIS STORY ONLINE. WHY DON’T YOU LISTEN? DON’T YOU REALIZE THE REAL DANGER STEFAN IS IN? DO YOU THINK I’M LYING OR SOMETIHNG?

She made it sound as though we’d spoken earlier that day instead of weeks before. At last, I could give Pete Sunday a number I knew was current. I looked at the phone as if a genie would emerge from its bland face and then I called Pete Sunday and sent him a photo of the phone number and the message. When I called the number on my own, though, it was disconnected.

I made some more tea and then walked outside, into our backyard. I’m not sure why. I certainly didn’t hear a sound that summoned me. But when I glanced over at my rose garden, the many-legged creature of fear walked along my neck. All the roses had been uprooted and lay tangled on the soil, like a miniature forest after clear-cutting. After the shock, I made my feet scamper to the back door, and only when it was closed and locked behind me did rage flush my face and chest.