Will
WillI hope I’m not making a mistake. The thought haunts me as I drive our black truck into our neighborhood near the beach. Looking in the rearview mirror, I see Hank raise a brow, but I don’t explain a thing. He knows what I’m doing.
I hope I’m not making a mistake. The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since we were kids. Every house is a classic beach house. White, light blue, the occasional green. Seashells and rope decorate the front porches along with swings. In all ways, it looks like the perfect place for two young boys to grow up.
Turning onto the next street, I spot my house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Like always, it stands there like a weed among roses. The roof is missing tiles. The paint is graying and faded. There’s a broken swing on the porch, and the wood that mak
