a guitar, his fingers always strumming, his foot always tapping, his voice humming a new tune. Even when he was just watching TV, there w

of industrial cleaner sharp in my nose. My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I pulled it out, my hands still damp, h

. "Things are incredible. We're making real art here. Ryan Scott, the Ryan Scott, t

f-the-art studio, nodding seriously at a mixing board or laughing with Ryan Scott, a guitar slung over his shoulder. It all

Mr. Henderson, walked past.

g to force a smile. "He's in

ays the guitar, right?

lways called. He'd call to ask about my day, to tell me a stupid joke, to play me a new riff over the phone

shaky clip, seemingly from someone's phone, of Caleb sitting on a stool, playing a new, haunting melody. He looked good, fo

vere and blistered. He saw the camera catch it and yanked his hand back instant

rm, seemed to stare at me. He had burns on his body when they brought him home from Afghanistan, old scar

deo call him. The call ra

Can't talk, Mom. In the zo

I typed back. Caleb, wh

h. Just a stupid accident with a

it, telling me the whole ridiculous story. This was a lie. I could feel it in my bones, a mother