The day everything tilted was a Tuesday in April—too warm for spring, too cold for comfort. Caleb, twelve, usually a tornado of noise, came home from Louis’s funeral and didn’t say a word. No backpack thud, no “I’m starving,” no headset flung to the couch. He walked to his room and closed the door—carefully, like anything louder might break him. Hours later I cracked it open. He was on the floor, back to the wall, clutching Louis’s old baseball glove like it was the only thing keeping his ribs from collapsing. I said his name. He didn’t look up. You...
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