The boy seemed fine, seemed as he always was, and the whole of Wendell’s chest seized and all but cracked open for the sadness of it, for his own shame. How many nights had Rowdy waited for Lacy to come home? How many nights had Wendell himself wished his own father would crawl out of the mountains? Not one more night, he swore to himself, standing in the pale light as the boy drummed his fingers across his cheeks. Not one fucking more.
