Normally, I would have laughed.
It was such an ordinary Foster-family exchange that it seemed impossible, looking back, that something much darker was already happening beneath the surface.
Mark had been strange during the drive.
Usually he filled silence with complaints about football, construction, gas prices, work, or a neighbor.
That afternoon, he barely spoke.
He kept checking the clock.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Just tired.”
He smiled.
But after twenty-six years, I knew his real smile.
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