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Kamden stays quiet for a long time. Long enough that I feel the urge to interrupt the silence several times before deciding it’s better not to.
When his lower lip begins to tremble and his chin wobbles, I brace for his questions.
How did we meet?
How long did I know him?
Was I there when he died?
Instead, he takes a shaky breath and whispers, “Can I be alone?”
I tuck the dog tags back beneath my shirt. “Yeah.”
His head lifts slightly, wary. “You mean it?”
I think he expected an argument.
I nod. “I do.”
His suspicious expression would almost be funny under different circumstances.
“For how long?” he asks.
“As long as you need.”
“That sounds like a trick.”
“It isn’t.”
He nibbles on his lip, then drops his gaze to the cuff attaching his wrist to the headboard.
I shake my head. “That needs to stay on.”
As Kamden looks up at me, I can see the unspoken hurt in his eyes. At the same time, he must understand enough why I can’t release him, because he doesn’t say anything to try to argue his case.
“I’ll be outside,” I tell him. “If you need something, call for me.”
He turns onto his side, giving me his back.
With that, I let myself out, locking the door behind me. I head for the living room and sit on the couch with a sigh. Finding the remote, I switch the TV to a random channel and put the volume on low. I last four minutes before checking the camera.
He’s flipped to his other side, burrowed even deeper beneath the blankets, and is staring forlornly at his father’s tote on the dresser.
My heart aches at his expression, so I set the phone face down and try to focus on the shit on TV. Six minutes later, I’m checking the camera feed again; I can’t help it.
Kamden has moved.
The cuff limits how far he can reach, but he’s shifted to the edge of the mattress and stretched toward the dresser as far as he can. Frustration passes over his face, and he glares at the door.
I shouldn’t find it cute. He’s upset, scared, and lost, but his glare looks less like a scathing look from an angry man and more like the face of a kitten who has just taken a bath and needs the world to see that he didn’t appreciate it one bit.
Five minutes later, Kamden lies back so he isn’t straining against the cuff any longer—though it still shouldn’t hurt his wrist.
Another ten passes, and he starts quietly crying. Not sobbing, just tears slipping down his face while he rubs his thumb over one of the rabbit’s ears.
I look away, staring instead at the empty wall beside the TV. John would hate this. Well, he’d hate me watching Kamden like this. I imagine he’d tell me to either go comfort his kid or give him some goddamn dignity by not spying on him.
I force myself to leave the phone alone for twelve whole minutes this time. When I check again, the crying has stopped, but something else has begun. Kamden shifts on the bed, crossing one leg over the other, uncrossing them, then pulling his knees tight to his chest. His lips press into a firm line; a faint crease forms between his brows.
