Heart stuffed right back inside my throat like it never left there in the first place, I retrieve the milk from the microwave, rip off a paper towel from the cabinet-mounted dispenser, and wrap it around the mug handle.
“Here you go, Boo,” I say a little too loudly. But I’m trying to pull his eyes away from the visual on the computer.
He turns quick. His face lights up again at the sight of the warm milk. He comes to me. I hand him the milk, tell him to drink it slowly. It could still be hot.
“You sure that’s the man in the cornfield?” I ask as I go to the kitchen table, close the laptop lid.
“Yes,” he says, coming up for air, a white milk mustache painting his upper lip. “Maybe.”
In my head, I’m praying he didn’t read any of the newspaper copy. Copy that included Lawrence Fredrick
