C
ap knew better. He needed to stop playing with fire. The best thing to do was drive home before the school bus arrived in town. He cranked the ignition, put the truck into gear, and told himself to drive away. But instead, he cut the engine and waited.
He knew the boy’s routines and habits. He knew the boy walked home from where the bus dropped him off in town. Cap knew all the boy’s shortcuts. Knew that he liked to stop on the bridge across the Tuscarora Creek to watch frozen chunks of ice float past, occasionally slinging rocks at them like they were enemy warships.
Every few weeks, Cap would feel the itch to head into town right before 3:15. He might tell himself that the trip was to run a quick errand—a stop at the market or to fill his tank with gas—but he always ended up parking
