Quickly, angrily, he wipes an escaped tear off his cheek. “I was supposed to be in that car, Donnelly. My mom—she asked me to go to the fucking Putt Palace, and I said no.” His voice cracks. “I said no, and I should’ve been there. Then you might’ve been in the car with us. Everything would’ve been different. Better.” “We don’t know that,” I breathe.
