I scanned the lot for his car.
Then I stopped.
It wasn’t the car itself that caught my attention. It was the windows.
A Honda Civic sat near the edge of the lot, pressed up against a concrete divider like it was trying not to exist. The windows were completely fogged over from the inside, thick with condensation.
Anyone who’s lived through a Canadian winter knows what that means.
Too much breath. Too little space.
My stomach dropped.
I told myself not to assume. Told myself there were explanations. But my feet were already moving.
As I got closer, the details stacked up fast and merciless. Blankets shoved awkwardly against the rear window. Crumpled fast-food wrappers scattered on the ground. A small sneaker lying sideways on the floor of the back seat.
My heart didn’t stop.
It fell.
I wiped a clear patch in the fogged glass and looked inside.
Michael was slumped in the driver’s seat, shoulders rounded, jaw clenched even in sleep. He looked thinner than I remembered. Not just physically. Something heavier had hollowed him out.
And then I saw the back seat. Continue reading…