I stayed where I was until 6:40.

Four hours in a four-by-six space, on a plank floor, with four hundred rolled drawings and my mother’s letters, in the dark, and I did not cry and I did not sleep and I did not move except to shift my weight, and what I did instead for four hours was read a phone screen at the lowest brightness it goes to.

Because at 2:31 — while he was still in the house, while I could still hear him on the ground floor — my son had sent me nine screenshots.

Part Four: What My Son Found