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Montoya threw the tennis ball the length of the yard, a long, narrow piece of property that extended from the back of the shotgun house he shared with his wife and kid. Abby was talking about moving, getting a bigger place, maybe thinking about having another child. “I’d love a daughter,” she’d told him in bed this morning. “Or another son. Benjamin will need a sibling.”
Montoya wasn’t convinced. At least not yet. The kid was way too young to deal with a brother or sister, even given another year, at least in Montoya’s opinion.
And the world they lived in was tough.
Climate change. Social unrest. A recent flu outbreak. Overpopulation. Wars around the world.
Was it wise to bring another kid onto the planet? He was of the opinion that Ben was enough. At least for now.
Their dog, Hershey, a chocolate lab that was beginning to show his age, bounded after the ball, loping through the patchy grass to retrieve the prize in the gloom of coming evening, then bring it back. Hershey’s muzzle was graying and he spent a lot of time lying in the sun on the back porch.
“Get it!” he said as the dog snuffled through the grass. “You can find it.” The ball had lodged between a crepe myrtle tree and Benjamin’s plastic trike near the back fence. “That’s it. You got it! Now, come on. Bring it back.” Tennis ball in mouth, Hershey loped back. “Good boy.” Montoya ruffled the lab behind his ears, then walked inside where the scents of bacon, onions, and tomato sauce still lingered from dinner.
Outside the bathroom he nearly ran into Abby, who was hauling a towel-wrapped Ben on one hip. “Hey, big guy!” He ruffled his son’s wet hair and the kid gave him a wide smile that showed two tiny lower teeth just breaking through his gums. The grin melted Montoya’s heart.
Benjamin gurgled something indistinct.
“Did you hear that?” Montoya asked, and joked, “I think he said ‘DaDa.’ Clear as a bell.”
“Dreamer.” Abby laughed, a sound Montoya still loved. “Okay, ‘DaDa,’ if you say so. Now, why don’t you get him in his pj’s and ask him to enunciate a little more distinctly, huh?” she said, handing Montoya the boy. “I’ll deal with cleaning up our bathroom where Hurricane Benjamin hit.”
“You got it.” He winked at his wife, then carried Ben into the nursery, a small room next to theirs that was definitely too small for a second crib no matter what Abby said. Placing his son on the changing table, he then struggled to get the wriggling baby into a diaper and pajamas.
“You’re a wiggling worm,” he accused, finally wrestling Ben’s head through the pajama top.
The baby giggled, as if he truly understood.
Montoya picked up his son and scooped up the damp towel before hanging it on a hook near the door. As he did, the cell phone in Montoya’s back pocket vibrated.
He almost didn’t answer, then thought better of it and placed the baby into the playpen in the living area.
No caller ID on the screen.
“Hello?” he answered, rolling a ball toward his son in the playpen.
“Bro?”
Montoya’s stomach dropped. “Cruz?” he said, recognizing the voice he hadn’t heard in over a year.
“Yeah,” his brother whispered, breathing hard, as if he’d been running.
“Cruz, where the hell are you?” Montoya couldn’t remember the last time Cruz had called him. Maybe on his last birthday? Maybe the one before. Cruz had always been a loner, a rogue, sometimes referred to as “the black sheep” of the family.
“Look, it doesn’t matter where I am. Not now,” Cruz said, keeping his voice low, as if he were afraid someone other than his brother might hear. “I’m in trouble. Deep shit, man.”
Montoya’s back muscles tightened. “What?”
“I can’t explain now. But I want you to know I’m heading your way.”
“Why?” This sounded bad.
“Because I need your help. And you can’t tell anybody, okay? Not anyone in the family and not Abby. Not your partner. You got that?”
Oh, shit. “Are you ser—?”
“Serious? Is that what you were going to ask?” Cruz demanded, his voice tight, and Montoya imagined his brother’s face, a muscle jumping near his temple. “Hell yeah, I’m serious. This is no joke. Okay?” A long shaky breath. “Holy Mother of God, I think—no, I know—I’m about to be arrested for murder.”
