THE FIRST TIME THE POLICE CAME TO MY FRONT DOOR TO ARREST MY SON, I WAS STANDING AT THE KITCHEN SINK WITH MY SLEEVES ROLLED UP, RINSING TOMATO SAUCE FROM A WOODEN SPOON AND TRYING NOT TO CRY OVER SOMETHING AS STUPID AS GROCERY PRICES.
It was late October in Denver, one of those sharp, blue evenings where the cold hits the window glass before it hits your bones. David was in the living room, his wheelchair angled toward the lamp, AP Computer Science textbook open on his lap, one socked foot twitching the way it did when he was concentrating hard. I remember that tiny detail because when your life splits open, your brain clings to ridiculous things. A lamp. A sock. A spoon in red water.
