“I worry,” my mom says, “about him, sometimes.” My pulse skitters. “Why’s that?” “He’s such a good boy. Man,” she corrects. “But I hate to see him put his own life on hold. At least he has a date to the corn festival this weekend.” It takes a second for her words to sink in, but once they do, I can barely breathe. “What?” I ask, my voice a hoarse whisper.
