Every Tuesday and Friday, he left the house carrying a little gray duffel bag for treatment.
Sometimes he’d return exhausted and go straight to bed.
Other times, strangely, he’d come home looking better than he had in years.
I thought that meant the treatment was working.
I was so relieved that I never questioned it.
Then one Tuesday morning, everything changed.
I had stopped at a gas station on my way to work when a woman in a red SUV pulled into the pump beside me.
She kept staring.
Not at me.
At the photo of Evan tucked into my clear phone case.
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