The Buick is exactly where Finn said it would be, squatting alone beneath Walmart’s orange glare, a metal island in an empty sea of painted lines. The windows are fogged from the inside, the tow sticker slapped crooked over a smeared child’s handprint. When April yanks the door open, Owen blinks up at her from the back seat, lips edged blue, inhaler wheezing its last, cocooned in a paper-thin airline blanket that smells like dust, old coffee, and fear. Between jagged breaths he sobs apologies that don’t belong to him: don’t tell Wade, they’ll take me from Mom, it’ll be my fa… Continues…
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