Grant

“What child?” I asked, confused.

Hunter sat across from me, head bowed, like gravity had finally gotten its revenge on his spine; he remained arched.

He didn’t answer. Not even a twitch.

“What child?” I repeated, sharper this time.

He flinched, barely, but still said nothing.

Then our father stood from behind his desk, walked toward the bar like he needed something strong, even if he didn’t drink. He let out a rough grunt as he moved, like the truth itself annoyed ...