Then, from the other side, came a voice so dry and hoarse I almost didn’t recognize it.

“Grandpa?”

I opened the door.

Mason was folded behind the coats, knees tucked to his chest. A tablet lay in his lap, screen black, cracked at one corner. His hoodie was twisted around one shoulder, and one sock was missing.

He looked smaller than ten. He looked like a child who had learned not to waste air crying.

He didn’t run to me. He didn’t even stand.