everything?â
âFine.â
He nods.
âI missed a few weeks, but my grades are back up,â I tell him. âThey even let me stay on the track team.â That seems to make him happy.
âHave you won lots of races?â
âMost of âem,â I say with a shrug. âMaybe Grandpa could take pictures for you at our next meet,â I tell him. I donât tell him that the seasonâs over and there wonât be any more meets.
I look at him closely through the reinforced glass. I sort of wish I could hug him, but in a way Iâm glad the glass is there. But I canât tell him that. Used to be I could tell my dad anything.
âPictures,â says Dad, âpictures would be nice.â
I suddenly realize I canât think of anything to say. I get scared. Real scared. I turn to see Grandma and Grandpa standing behind me. They just smile at me, like this is themost wonderful moment in the world. It makes me feel better. If they think this is wonderful, then maybe it is.
I turn back to Dad. âDo they feed you good?â
âOh, yeah,â he says. âEvery dayâs Thanksgiving.â I laugh at his joke even though itâs not all that funny.
âHey,â says Tyler, âgimme a chance. I wanna talk to him, too.â Tyler grabs the phone away from me, and I grab it back.
âYou donât grab things!â I tell him. âAsk nicely. Use the p word.â
Tyler sighs. âCan I please talk to Dad now?â
âMuch better.â I hand him the phone, and he steps up to the glass. Heâs so small his head barely clears the little ledge in the booth. Dad looks down on him with his sunken eyes.
âYou like it here?â asks Tyler.
âItâs okay,â Dad says.
âYou get your own room?â asks Tyler.
âI share it,â Dad says.
âBunk beds?â
Dad nods.
âWho do you share it with?â
âA guy named Bob.â
Tyler nods and wrinkles his brow, trying to picture what a guy named Bob might look like.
âCan I see your room?â
Dad shakes his head.
âOh,â says Tyler, a bit disappointed.
âI miss you, Tyler,â says Dad.
âMe too,â says Tyler. âWhy did you kill my mommy?â
I instantly bodycheck Tyler against the wall and grab the phone away from him. Tyler whines and complains, but I push him back behind me.
âWhat?â says Dad. âWhat was that? What, Tyler?â He pretends he didnât hear. But he heard. I know he heard, and he knows that I know he heard. But we play the game. We both pretend.
âAre you coming out soon?â I ask him.
He shakes his head. âI still have to go to trial.â
âOh.â
Behind me Tyler is sniffling, more upset about the way I pushed him out of the way than anything else.
âDad,â I ask, looking at his eyes, trying to see if theyâre the same eyes I remembered, âare you better now?â
âIâm feeling okay,â he says, rubbing his stomach just above his belly button.
âNo,â I say, clearly and slowly. âI mean are you better now?â
He looks at me for a moment, then looks down and starts picking at his fingernails.
âPreston,â he says. âI love you, Preston. And Iâm sorry.â He starts to cry. âIâm sorry Iâm sorry Iâm sorry.â
And thatâs about enough. I turn around and give the phone to Grandma. I will not cry. I will not cry now. All thesecriminals looking at me, all these stone-faced guards. I give the phone to Grandma, and she talks to Dad. She cries a bit and calms him down. Sheâs good with people who cry. She should be a professional grandmother.
I lean back against the ugly gray wall. Itâs sticky even though the paint has probably been dry for years and years. I stand back, close my eyes, and force down the tears so the criminals wonât see, and I count the