The text message at the red light on Main Street flashed in my mind.

The urgent, low conversation around the alcove fifteen minutes ago.

He had not been leaving a voicemail for his division director, Alan Vance.

He had been calling his mother to come get him.

“Is that true, Ethan?” I asked.

“Did you call your mother to pick you up?”

Ethan looked down at the black coat folded over his lap.

His hands tightened in the wool, his knuckles turning white.