These Dreams of You

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Parker begins to cry furiously, like back in the canyon when he punches holes in the house. Sure enough, he pulls back to put his hand through the wall of their room and Zan says, “Your hand,” meaning the one the boy hurt in Paris.

It stops Parker long enough that he kicks the wall instead, burying his foot halfway in the plaster.

“Jesus, Parker!” his father shouts. Looking over his shoulder for a landlord to come through the door, Zan says, “You can’t do this here! We don’t live here! This place isn’t ours.”

“Nothing is ours!” the boy cries. “I hate everything! I hate you and I hate Mom and I hate Sheba!”

The father turns to the door and turns the latch so no one can come in. It takes only a moment for him to do it but it’s long enough so that when he faces back to the room he finds it empty, the second-story window open, in its black square the visual echo, outlined in electric blue, of his son having gone through it.