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"It's impossible for me not to worry, baby."
"I know, but it's also impossible not to feel the weight of that worry like a boulder on my chest."
"I'll try."
"Thanks, Mom. I love you."
"I love you, too. So much."
--
I scrolled through my endless TV options, none of them particularly compelling, until I heard Davis's knock--soft and unsteady--on the door.
"Hey," I said, and hugged him.
"Hey," he said. I motioned to the couch for him to sit down. "How've you been?"
"Listen," I said. "Davis, your dad. I know where the jogger's mouth is. It's the mouth of Pogue's Run, where the company had that unfinished project."
He winced, then nodded. "You're sure?"
"Pretty sure," I said. "I think he might be down there. Daisy and I were there last night, and . . ."
"Did you see him?"
I shook my head. "No. But the run's mouth, the jogger's mouth. It makes sense."
"It's just a note from his phone, though. You think he's just been down there this whole time? Hiding in a sewer?"
"Maybe," I said. "But . . . well, I don't know."
"But?"
"I don't want to worry you, but there was a bad smell. A really bad smell down there."
"That could've been anything," he said. But I could see the fear on his face.
"I know, yeah, totally, it could be anything."
"I never thought . . . I never let myself think--" And then his voice caught. The cry that finally came out of him felt like the sky ripping open. He sort of fell into me, and I held him on the couch. Felt his rib ca
ge heave. It wasn't only Noah who missed his father. "Oh God, he's dead, isn't he?"
"You don't know that," I said. But he kind of did. There was a reason there had been no trail and no communication: He'd been gone all along.
He lay down and I lay down with him, the two of us barely fitting on the musty couch. He kept saying what do I do, what do I do, his head on my shoulder. I wondered whether it was a mistake to tell him. What do I do? He asked it again and again, pleading.
"You keep going," I told him. "You've got seven years. No matter what actually happened, he'll be legally alive for seven years, and you'll have the house and everything. That's a long time to build a new life, Davis. Seven years ago, you and I hadn't even met, you know?"
"We've got nobody now," he mumbled. I wished I could tell him that he had me, that he could count on me, but he couldn't.
"You have your brother," I said.
That made him split open again, and we cuddled together for a long time, until Mom came home with the groceries. Davis and I both jumped to a seating position, even though we hadn't been doing anything.
"Sorry to interrupt," Mom said.
"I was just headed out," Davis said.
