“I don’t know,” Mr. Weber said, voice whispery and rattling with phlegm. I’d noticed his IV was gone today. “A piece of paper with lines on it doesn’t look like the real world. It’s been so many years, and the whole time me trying so hard to forget.”
“That’s okay, Dad,” Roger said, mostly hiding his disappointment.
Roger hated to lose as much as he loved to win—it’s one of the things that made him such an amazing litigator. But this wasn’t about his ego. It was about giving his father peace.
“Mr. Weber,” I began.
“Please, sweetie, call me Amos,” he cut in.
I smiled and continued. “Amos, let’s try something different. I want you to close your eyes, go back to that day, and tell me what you see. You said you rode in a truck to the place where the boy was buried. Where were you when your
