Chapter 2: The Boy Standing in My Doorway
“Nathan!””
My voice came out louder than I intended.
“Where have you BEEN? Do you have any idea what you've put us through?””
He stopped just inside the door.
For a moment, he didn't seem to recognize the room.
His eyes moved from me to Denise, then to the overturned chair behind us.
“Mom, I—”
“Don't you dare lie to me.””
I had spent hours imagining the things I would say when I finally found him.
I had imagined grounding him for the rest of the year.
Taking his phone.
Calling every parent in town.
Demanding that he explain every missing weekend, every unanswered call, every lie he had told me.
But the words that came out were different.
“Two months, Nathan. Two months! Where have you been sleeping every weekend?””
He lowered his head.
That was when I truly looked at him.
Not glanced at him.
Not checked whether he was carrying his overnight bag.
Looked.
His skin had a grayish cast beneath the hallway light.
His clothes were soaked through, clinging to his shoulders and arms.
His hair was damp, and his lips were cracked.
The hands hanging beside his body looked painfully wrong.
The skin across his knuckles was split.
Several fingers were red and swollen.
Two had been wrapped in what appeared to be an old, filthy bandage.
His shoes left dark, wet marks on the floor.
And the smell—
Bleach.
Cold water.
Something sharp and industrial that I couldn't identify.
He looked thinner than he had two months earlier, his cheeks hollowed, his sweatshirt hanging loosely from his frame.
His shoulders sagged as though he were carrying something invisible and impossibly heavy.
He wasn't standing like a boy who had spent the night laughing with his best friend.
He was barely standing at all.
“Nathan?”” I whispered.
He swayed.
I lunged forward and caught his arm.
He flinched so violently that I instinctively let go.
The movement broke something inside me.
My son had never been afraid of me touching him.
Never.
“What happened to your hands?”” I asked.
He tucked them behind his back.
“Nothing.””
“Nothing?””
My voice cracked.
“Look at yourself! You're soaked. You're shaking. Your hands are bleeding!””
“I'm fine, Mom.””
“No, you're not.””
Denise had risen from the table.
She stared at Nathan with an expression I couldn't interpret.
“Where's Cole?”” she asked.
Nathan's eyes snapped toward her.
For the first time since entering the house, he looked genuinely frightened.
“Is he here?”” Denise pressed.
Nathan shook his head.
“Did you see him tonight?””
He didn't answer.
Denise stepped closer.
“Nathan, please. He's my son. I haven't seen him in weeks.””
Something changed in Nathan's face.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes filled with tears so suddenly that I forgot every angry word I had prepared.
“Mom,” he whispered.
I reached for him again, slowly this time.
“Tell me what's happening.””
He stared at my hand.
Then he looked at the floor.
“I can't.””
Those two words were barely audible.
I felt my knees weaken.
“You can't tell me, or you won't tell me?””
He swallowed.
“I can't.””
I wanted to shake him.
I wanted to demand names, addresses, explanations.
I wanted to call the police and have someone find Cole immediately.
But Nathan's trembling had become impossible to ignore.
He was shivering so hard that his teeth clicked together.
“Sit down,” I said.
He shook his head.
“Now, Nathan.””
He tried to take a step toward the kitchen.
His knees buckled.
I caught him beneath the arms, and together we stumbled against the wall.
Denise rushed forward to help.
For one terrible second, I thought my son was going to collapse completely.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered.
The apology was so small that I almost didn't hear it.
“I'm so sorry, Mom.””
I held him against me.
His clothes were cold and wet.
Beneath the industrial smell, I caught something else—sweat, exhaustion, and the stale odor of someone who had spent too long in a place where he couldn't properly rest.
“Don't apologize,” I said, though tears were already running down my face.
“Just tell me where you've been.””
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I have to go back.””
The words stopped me cold.
“What?””
He opened his eyes.
“I have to go back.””
“Back where?””
He looked toward the front door.
Not toward his bedroom.
Not toward the kitchen.
Toward the darkness outside.
“Not now,” he whispered.
“Please, Mom. Not now.””
Denise covered her mouth.
I guided Nathan into a chair and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.
His hands trembled in his lap.
When I tried to examine the bandages, he pulled away.
“Please don't.””
“Sweetheart, I need to see whether those fingers are broken.””
“They're not.””
“How do you know?””
He didn't answer.
I reached for my phone to call for medical help.
Nathan caught my wrist.
His grip was weak, but his desperation was unmistakable.
“Don't call anyone.””
I stared at him.
“Your hands are injured. You're shaking. You can barely stand. I'm getting you help.””
“No police.””
He said it so quickly that Denise and I exchanged a look.
“Nathan, why would you be afraid of the police?””
His breathing became shallow.
“Because if they find out I came home—”
He stopped.
The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence.
“If they find out what?”” I asked.
Nathan looked at Denise.
Then at me.
May you like
And finally, he whispered something that made every hair on my arms rise.
“Because Cole is still there.””
