Normally my lively boy took the stairs two at a time, bounding up to his room like a wild puppy eager to build his plastic models or play his video games.

Today he walked like an old man carrying the weight of the whole world on his thin shoulders, watching my slow breathing with a furrowed brow.

When we got to his second-floor bedroom at the end of the hall, the room looked mostly normal at first glance, but small changes jumped out at me.

His leather baseball glove hung from the oak bedpost, a half-built plastic spaceship sat on his desk, and last spring’s team photo was still taped to the wall.

But when I looked over at the wooden bookshelf beside his closet, two whole rows of his favorite adventure books were gone.