OUTSIDE FANELLI’S, the night is moonless but clear; a warm breeze has swept the clouds from the sky. The parking lot is clotted with weeds, and shards of broken bottles glitter underfoot. Above the sound of his boots scraping the dirt, Sam hears the chirping of crickets rising out of the marshy derelict field, and the vaporous bass thump of music escaping the bar.
He comes to his mom’s Subaru, keys dangling from his fingers.
He sees her then—a few yards away, leaning against an old Volvo wagon with her arms folded across her chest, her blond hair smudged yellow by the safety light from a phone box at the rear corner of the lot.
“I waited an hour,” he says, his voice caught awkwardly between anger and relief. “How long have you been out here?”
She doesn’t answer. Hugging herself, though the night is anything but cold.