“I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Mason’s shoulders slumped.
I took some shampoo and worked it through his hair. Dug my fingers into his scalp the way he liked. Smoothed out the tangles and rinsed the suds away, then added some of the nice-smelling conditioner he used. The whole time Mason stayed silent, staring at the tiled wall like he might find some answers there. I ran the washcloth down his spine while I waited for the conditioner to do its thing, and he shivered under my touch, then sagged farther, his head hanging low. He reminded me of Dog when I’d first rescued him—small, afraid, and unsure of what was happening—and my heart ached.
I guided his head back so I could rinse the conditioner from his hair, and once I was done, I shut the water off. When Mason climbed out of the tub, he stared at the floor, his face a picture of misery, and then he rested his head on my shoulder as a sound escaped him. I ignored the water dripping down my back from his wet hair and held him as his body shook and his sobs broke through the quiet.
I held him like that for a long time.
Finally, Mason pulled back, his eyes red and swollen, and let out a hollow laugh that had no humor in it at all. “I’m a fucking mess, and now you’re all wet.”
“I don’t care.” I picked up the towel and dried his hair, then patted the rest of him dry. He stood there unmoving and let me, and he didn’t protest when I took his hand and led him through to the bedroom. It was like he was operating on reflex exceptsomewhere inside him a switch had been flicked off, and now the connection between his brain and his body was faulty.
I knew that feeling—I’d lived it often enough. I’d walked Chase through his share of meltdowns too, so I knew the best thing to do was just keep things moving while his brain rebooted.
I sat Mason down on the side of the bed and knelt in front of him, guiding his feet into his sleep pants and cajoling him to stand so I could pull them up, then coaxing him into a soft, worn T-shirt. Once he was dressed, I grabbed his hairbrush and guided it through the tangles in long, even strokes until the brush moved freely. I pulled back the covers and said, “Get in.”
He blinked at me slowly. “What?”
“Get in bed,” I said. “You need to sleep.”
He didn’t argue. Once he was under the blankets, I slipped into bed behind him, wrapping my arms around his body and resting my face on the curve of his shoulder. His chest rose and fell under my touch, and he reached up and put one hand on top of mine where it was touching him and whispered, “Thank you.”
He let out a yawn.
“Sleep,” I said. “You must be exhausted.”
He hummed, his eyes already closing. “Pretty tired, yeah. Almost fell asleep at the wheel driving home.” And then his mouth twitched, and he added in a wistful tone, “I kind of wish I had. It would sure solve all my problems, right?”
My eyes burned again, but every other part of me felt suddenly, horribly cold.
It tookme half an hour before I worked up the nerve to make the call.
“Cash?” Mr. Conrad sounded half-asleep, and I felt a jolt of guilt as I paced back and forth in the kitchen. It was barely light outside. “Are you okay, son?”
I nodded out of habit, then forced out the word. “Yes.”
“What—what are you doing calling me at this hour?” He groaned, and I pictured him swinging his legs over the side of his bed as he sat up. He sounded like a set of bellows when he either sat up or sat down.
My throat clicked as I swallowed and tried to get my words in order. “It’s Mason,” I said. “He’s—he’s not okay.”
Mr. Conrad’s voice was gentle as he said, “Not okay how, Cash?”
The silence stretched out, and I gave a frustrated huff. “He’s—there was a cow,” I said.
“Okay. I’m guessing whatever it is, it’s a lot, huh? Or you wouldn’t be making phone calls.”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
Mr. Conrad sounded more awake now, and I closed my eyes and pictured his face as I struggled to breathe through the panic that was threatening to overwhelm me. My fingers twitched, searching for some Lego pieces I didn’t have.
“First things first. Is Mason hurt?” Mr. Conrad asked.
“No.”
“Okay, that’s good. You’re doing fine, Cash,” he said and I found I could breathe again.
And now those first words were out, it was like I’d pulled the stopper out of a bottle, and the rest of them flowed, if not easily, at least steadily enough that I managed to tell Mr. Conrad what was worrying me.
