“Can you show us how to draw a boat now?” Lila asked, holding up a blue crayon.

I looked at Maren, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching me.

There was no anger in her face, only a quiet, watchful waiting.

“I can try,” I told Lila, taking the crayon.

My hand was shaking slightly as I drew the first line on the blank white paper.

The phone in my pocket vibrated, a sharp, metallic buzz against my thigh.

I ignored it, focusing on the blue line of the wave I was drawing.

It buzzed again.

And again.

A persistent, unbroken rhythm.

Maren’s eyes drifted down to my pocket, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Adrian,” she said quietly. “You should probably answer that.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the screen.

It was an unknown number, but the area code was from the federal prison facility in Rhode Island.

I slid my thumb across the glass and put the phone to my ear.

“Adrian,” a voice said.

It wasn’t my mother.

It was a man’s voice, raspy and breathless.