“Dad?”
More taps.
D-R-U-G-S I-N F-O-O-D.
I looked toward the door.
Then back at him.
“Are you actually confused?”
His fingers moved.
N-O.
My throat tightened.
Then:
M-A-R-C-U-S H-U-R-T M-E.
I looked at the bruises.
“Why?”
For illustration purposes only
Another message.
T-R-Y-I-N-G T-O M-A-K-E M-E L-O-O-K V-I-O-L-E-N-T.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Dad’s fingers stopped.
Instantly, his face went slack again.
His mouth opened slightly.
His eyes lost focus.
The transformation was astonishing.
The door opened.
Abigail stood there.
Marcus behind her.
“He doesn’t know you anymore, Sam,” she whispered.
Her hand settled gently on my shoulder.
“We have his psychiatric evaluation tomorrow.”
I stood.
Abigail looked at me with rehearsed sorrow.
“It’s time to accept what’s happening.”
I nodded.
“You’re right.”
Marcus locked the door again as we left.
But before it closed, Dad’s eyes met mine.
There was nothing confused about them.
At dinner, Abigail explained months of supposed wandering episodes, memory loss, and violent behavior.
Marcus remained nearby.
Watching.
