He was wearing an old gray T-shirt with a faded fire department logo on the front. It was way too big for him. It hung down past his knees. I knew that shirt. It was his father’s. My son David’s. Walter kept it folded in the bottom drawer of his dresser, and he only took it out on the very worst days.
There were dark circles under his eyes. Purple ones, like bruises. I’d never seen anything like that on him before. He was nine. Nine-year-olds aren’t supposed to have circles like that.
Seeing him there nearly broke me in half.
Walter had lived with me since his father died four years ago.
David was a firefighter. He died on a warehouse call in the spring, when a roof came down. He was thirty-four. Walter’s mother had left when Walter was two. Moved to Florida with a man she met online and never came back. She didn’t come to the funeral. She sent a card with a picture of a lily on it and no return address.
