My chest tightened.
I squeezed Andrew's hand. "I'll be back in the morning," I whispered. "I love you, bud."
Outside, the parking lot was slick with rain, streetlights glinting on the pavement. I slid behind the wheel, the note still pressed in my palm.
When I finally stepped inside, the house was still and cold. I paused outside Andrew's bedroom, breathing in the faint scent of his deodorant and shampoo.
His closet door was cracked open just an inch — as if someone had checked something and left it that way.
"I love you, bud."
Inside, everything seemed normal.
I ran my hand over the clothes. My phone buzzed with another text from Brendon. I ignored it and kept searching.
My mind ran circles around the timeline — Andrew and Brendon had left the house a little after four. If there were any clues, I'd find them here. I tried to imagine Andrew’s last hour at home.
Had he left anything for me? Was he already feeling bad, or did something happen on that walk?
On the highest shelf, behind a stack of old comics, I found a blue shoebox. I took it down, sitting on Andrew's bed.
"Okay, Andrew," I whispered. "What did you want me to see, son?"
I ran my hand over the clothes.
The lid came off easily. On top was the appointment from the cardiology clinic, scheduled for next week. Underneath, a printout from the patient portal. See, Andrew was healthy as far as we knew, but he'd been born with a minor heart defect that had only gotten better.
But still, the check-ups were vital.
Now, I read the printout aloud, and my stomach dropped. "Appointment canceled by parent — Brendon."
Not missed. Not delayed. Canceled — as if Andrew's fear was an inconvenience.
A sticky note in Andrew's handwriting was tucked beside it.
"Dad said I don't need it. Mom is going to freak out," I read.
