The Lost Sons

Conrad was supposed to be at school. I was washing up for lunch when I caught my teenage

son dragging himself toward the front door. "Conrad!" I said.

"Why aren't you in school?" He twisted to glare at me, a yellowing bruise

under his eye. "Hey." I pulled him into a hug. He was stiff.

"Sweetie, what happened?" I whispered, cupping his cheeks. I prodded his eye,

and he flinched, shoving me away. His eyes scared me—hollow, wrong,

staring through me. "Mom," he whispered, voice splintering into a sob.

"It's Dad." I took his arm, leading him into the kitchen. Conrad slumped into