money into his backpack. A few weeks later, he came home late with muddy shoes, a torn jacket, and a scrape on his face. When I asked where his paycheck was, he only said, “Somewhere safe.”
I began imagining the worst. Maybe someone older had pulled my grieving son into something dangerous. Then Sal, the diner owner, called me. “Do you know what your son does with every paycheck?” he asked. Before I could answer, I heard Evan shouting in the background, followed by a crash. Sal told me to come immediately.
