Willie

He breathes deeply of his father’s skin, the valley between his eyes filled precisely by the muscle of the old man’s shoulder, a perfect fit. He feels his father’s fingers against his skull, each one a reassuring point of pressure holding Willie close, pulling him in. He surrenders, lets himself be held, as awkward as the pose is with his shackled hands between them. In his father’s arms, everything falls away—the heat, the hundreds of people around them, the waiting chair, his fate. For the first time since he was accused, he feels safe, and he presses his head more into his father’s shoulder, presses it hard, with all the weight of his love.