I reach out for the harvest table to balance myself. There’s something else on the floor beside the blood. Something that takes my eyes some time to focus on, my brain to register. Another piece of eight inches by eleven and one-half inches of green construction paper. Sluggishly, as if caught up in a nightmare I cannot escape, I make my way to the paper, bend at the knees, pick it up.
Over my shoulder, I make out the sound of Taco shuffling around in her crate. She’s clearly agitated. She’s also crying. Taco never cries.
I try to focus on the drawing. The artwork and style are easily recognizable as belonging to my son. The body depicted in the very center of the paper is sitting in what looks to be a wood chair. The hands, arms, and legs are taped to the chair, as is the body’s torso
