I drove home to my small hometown near the Redwood Valley, and Mrs.

Beatrice was waiting for me at my driveway gate.

She was sixty-four, had cared for the county’s children for half her life, and knew every family for miles.

I climbed out of my truck.

“What on earth happened, Beatrice?” I asked.

She looked at me like a woman who had been rehearsing a terrible conversation for days.

“I can’t go on like this, Lucas,” she said, her voice shaking.

“The poor child keeps asking when you’re coming home.”

“Which child?” I asked, baffled.

And Mrs.

Beatrice burst into tears.

“Your son, Lucas,” she whispered.

Something vital shut down inside my chest at those two words.

Because my son was dead.