Adam had traced the same line every night.
“You can be angry at me,” he said. “I won’t tell you not to be. But I don’t want you thinking Michael was tricked or pressured. I asked. He agreed. I tried to change it back later. He wouldn’t let me. None of that makes what happened fair.”
Peter sat down again.
“Tell me what happened after the attack started.”
Mrs. Callahan closed her eyes.
Adam’s pulse climbed. This was the edge he had avoided in every rehearsal.
He did not give them details they had not asked for. He did not turn Michael’s death into a scene they would be forced to replay. He told them the attack came quickly. He told them Michael did his job. He told them Michael was not alone. He told them the last thing Michael said to him was not a dramatic final message, but his nickname for Adam followed by an instruction to help someone else.
Peter listened without interrupting.
When Adam finished, Mrs. Callahan covered her mouth with one hand.
“Was he afraid?” she asked again.
“Yes,” Adam said. “And he kept going anyway.”
Peter looked down at the photograph.
“That sounds like him.”
It was the first time he had said his son’s name without anger changing the shape of the sentence.
The server returned carefully and asked whether they wanted more coffee. Mrs. Callahan said yes. Peter ordered nothing. Adam realized he had not opened a menu.
They stayed for nearly two hours.
At first the questions came in bursts. Did Michael complain about the rain? Constantly. Did he still hate powdered creamer? With unreasonable passion. Had he really learned the card game he claimed he was winning? No. He had changed the rules whenever he was losing.
Mrs. Callahan laughed once, then cried because she had laughed.
Adam waited while she recovered.
Peter asked fewer questions. When he did, they were the ones Adam feared most. Had Michael talked about coming home? Yes. Had he mentioned the garage project he wanted to finish with his father? Yes. Had he said he was angry after their last phone call?
Adam hesitated.
Peter noticed.
“Tell me.”
“He said you two argued about the truck.”
Peter looked away. “Of course we did.”
“He wasn’t carrying it like a final fight. He was planning what he’d say when he got back.”
Peter’s face folded then. Not dramatically. The change happened around his eyes first, as if a structure he had been forcing upright finally gave way.
“I don’t remember what I said at the end,” he admitted.
Mrs. Callahan reached for his hand.
“I remember,” she said. “You told him not to be stupid.”
