I looked at my son closely, then, in the gray morning light — the terrible weight he had lost, the unkempt beard swallowing half his face, the cuffs worn through on his jacket, the hands cracked and red from the cold, the bruised dark hollows under his eyes.

I had spoken to him on the phone three days before.

He had told me everything was great.

That work was busy.

That he might be hard to reach on his birthday.

And I had believed him, because he was my son, and because believing him was easier than the truth.