Chapter 3: What the Marks Were Counting
I stepped into the room slowly, the way you move around something fragile.
The marks covered the wall beside the window in tight, careful rows — groups of five, crossed on the fourth stroke.
I counted three full rows before I stopped counting.
"Radley," I said.
"Can you tell me what these are for?"
He didn't answer right away.
He looked at Brenna first, the way a child looks at the only person they fully trust.
She gave him a small nod.
"Days," he said.
"Days since Dad left."
I kept my voice level.
"When did he leave?"
"He didn't leave like he was angry," Radley said.
"He left like he was scared.
He hugged us both really hard and said he'd fix it.
He said a week, maybe two." He looked at the wall.
"That was a lot of weeks ago."
Brenna sat down on the edge of the bed.
She pulled her backpack into her lap and held it against her chest.
"Mom says he chose to go," she said quietly.
"She says we're not supposed to talk about him."
"But you don't believe that," I said.
"He left his wallet," Radley said.
"It was on the kitchen counter.
I found it the morning after he was gone.
I didn't tell Mom.
I put it under my mattress."
He crossed the room, lifted the corner of the mattress, and held the wallet out to me with both hands.
The leather was worn soft at the edges.
Inside: a driver's license, a library card, fourteen dollars in cash, and a photograph — a family of four at a beach, everyone squinting into the sun.
The father's arm around a woman who was not smiling the way the children were.
"His name is Dale," Radley said.
"Dale Mercer."
I turned the license over in my hand.
The address matched the house we were standing in.
"Has anyone come to check on you?" I asked.
"A teacher, a neighbor, anyone from the school?"
Radley and Brenna exchanged a look I had seen before — the look children share when they have agreed, without words, on what to say to adults.
"Mrs.
Paulson next door brings food sometimes," Brenna said carefully.
"She leaves it on the porch.
She doesn't knock."
"Why doesn't she knock?"
Another look between them.
"Because Mom told her not to," Radley said.
"Mom said we don't need charity.
She said if anyone came inside and saw how we were living, they'd take us away."
The room was very quiet.
I looked at the single blanket on the bed, the empty shelves, the window with its blind pulled down against the afternoon.
A child's drawing was taped to the inside of the door — a house with four figures in front of it, all holding hands.
"Where is your mother now?" I asked.
"Grandma's," Brenna said.
"She goes there a lot.
She takes the car."
"And she leaves you here."
"She leaves food," Radley said quickly.
Not defending her.
Just correcting the record.
"How long has she been gone this time?"
He looked at Brenna.
"Since yesterday morning," Brenna said.
I set the wallet down on the bed beside Radley.
I did not reach for my radio yet.
I needed him to keep talking.
"Radley.
The last time someone promised and didn't come back — who was that?"
His jaw tightened.
He was ten years old and working very hard not to cry.
"The man from the county," he said.
"He came in the spring.
He talked to Mom for a long time outside.
Then he came in and asked us some questions.
He wrote things down.
He said someone would follow up." Radley looked at the wall of marks.
"Nobody followed up."
Brenna reached over and took her brother's hand.
May you like
I stood up straight and unclipped my radio.
That was when we heard the front door open.
