I stayed by the sink, my hand still resting against my collarbone. The cold water ran over my wrist, but I did not turn it off.
When I went to get the clean swaddle blankets from the linen closet at seven, I saw it. A large, green canvas duffel bag sat by the front door, its heavy metal zipper pulled shut.
The fabric was worn at the corners, showing pale threads where it had scraped against boat decks and truck beds over the years. On the brass zipper pull, a small dried piece of lake weed was still stuck from his last trip.
Brandon stood beside the bag, wearing his faded khaki fishing trousers and a clean flannel shirt. He did not look at me as I approached.
“What is that?” I asked, my fingers tightening against my collarbone.
Brandon looked at his knuckles, then looked up at the ceiling fixture.
“Theo and Marcus are picking me up in fifteen minutes,” Brandon said, his words tripping over each other as he spoke. “We are driving up to the cabin in Georgia for the weekend.
