Bathroom. Empty.
Bedroom. One mattress on the floor.
Thin blanket. Pillow. A backpack and a skateboard.
That was about it.
Murray came back and faced Jack.
“How long has your mom been gone?” he asked.
Jack stared at the floor.
“A while,” he mumbled.
“How long is ‘a while’?” Murray pressed.
Jack shifted, tugging at his sleeve.
“A week,” he said.
Then, in a rush, “Or nine days.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
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