So I told myself there had to be an innocent explanation, and I said goodnight, and I went to bed.

I lay awake for a while that night, though, turning the image over: my son on the floor, the fanned bills, the fear that had flashed across his face, the too-smooth explanation about small bills from the register.

It did not sit right, and I knew it did not sit right, and I remember making a small bargain with myself in the dark, the kind of bargain tired parents make: I would watch, and if anything else happened, if there was one more strange thing, I would ask him directly and not accept a deflection.

I would give him this one pass, this one night of privacy, but I would not give him a second.