Jared scrunched down on the floor of his closet, surrounded by the tangle of jeans and T-shirts, a half-dozen pairs of athletic shoes, two pairs of cleats he’d kept from his baseball days, and gloves. It was a little too dark in here but he wanted the quiet. The two shoeboxes at his side overflowed with photos; they smelled like Juliana. He had their wedding album in his lap and in his stomach, the feeling that his life had gone terribly wrong. The tornado, the lawsuit, the petition, Peter leaving.
Sultan gone.
He had tried to nap after the argument with Peter but couldn’t sleep. All the promises he’d made over the years—to Mrs. Clifton, to the cats, to himself, to Juliana—puffed away like smoke. He drove himself to keep working because stopping would have scared him too much.
Nobody’s
