The eighteen families who had brought their children to the party were now dispersing into their own cars.
I looked back at my brother’s car, but the space was already empty.
“We are going home now,” I said.
Kobe did not answer me.
My mirror showed the sight of Kobe folding his hands over his ears in the back seat, staring at his glittering socks.
The garage door took twelve seconds to seal us inside the house, shutting out the cold wind blowing off the Mississippi river. I left the keys on the laminate counter by the breadbox and guided Kobe toward the kitchen sink to wash his hands.
The blue dye from the trampoline park stamp was still smudged across his knuckles, a faint stain that wouldn’t scrub off. He kept his head down, watching the water swirl into the drain without saying a word.
“Use the lavender soap, honey,” I said, putting a clean dish towel over his shoulder.
He did not reach for the soap. He just let the warm water run over his fingers, his shoulders small and tense under his flannel shirt.
