We step back as Denny cradles his boy’s body. Neither rigor mortis nor ice have been able to claim him yet, and Denny lays him on his back, his arms folded over his chest and his legs together. Then he kneels beside his son, arranging his clothes. Gently tugging the creases out. His hand flutters to where Grayson’s head should have been and I know he wants to brush his hair back.
