“I was three states away, Mom.

I’m handling it now.”

“Handling it how?”

He pushed a hand through his hair and stared at the floor between his boots.

“I talked to her from a gas station in Nebraska.

She’s staying at a motel by the interstate until we work this out.”

“Working it out is a pretty mild phrase for a five-year-old padlocked in a dog pen,” I said.

“She was overwhelmed,” he said, his voice rising, defensive and thin.