Three Days Before the Casket Was Delivered, My Son Asked Me to Sign a Document
“We’re finished here, Brenda.”
I followed him out.
The courthouse hallway smelled of floor wax and damp wool.
At three o’clock that afternoon I sat in the visiting room at the county jail with a black receiver held to my ear.
Julian sat behind the glass in a gray scrub suit, his hair mashed flat on one side.
“You look worn out, Mom.”
“I am worn out.”
He leaned closer to the little holes in the glass.
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