My throat tightened.
“He’s fine, honey. Just tired.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too.”
After she hung up, I sat at the kitchen table with my phone in my hand.
He hadn’t sent fish pictures. He always sent fish pictures. Sophie had a whole album on her phone called “Dad’s Dumb Fish.” Nine years of Mark holding up bass and perch and once, gloriously, a pike that was almost as long as his arm.
Not this year.
I opened Facebook.
Ray posted everything. Ray had never had a thought he didn’t share with the internet. If Ray ate a sandwich, there was a photo of the sandwich.
His page from the weekend was full.
Boats. A sunrise over the lake, the water flat and pink and gold. Dave holding up a bass, grinning. Tommy asleep in a lawn chair with his mouth open and a beer can balanced on his stomach. A campfire with sparks rising into the dark.
