Macon didn't eat real meals anymore. When he was hungry he drank a glass of milk or ate some ice cream from the fridge. Then he began to notice that his shirt collars felt looser round his neck and the lines on his face seemed deeper. So every morning he cooked two eggs and made fresh hot coffee. Oh he was managing fine. All things considered.
But his nights were terrible.
They began all right. He would get into bed and move the cat over. The dog Edward was small with very short legs and had to be helped onto the bed. Edward then lay at his feet while the cat lay next to his back.
Macon would sleep for a house or two and then wake up. Little worries ran round and round his mind. Had he left the back door unlocked? Forgotten to put the milk away? Paid the gas bill?
The worries changed grew deeper. He wondered what had gone wrong with his marriage. They were such different people
Sarah changeable and disorganized he systematic and fixed in his routines. And when Ethan was born he only brought out more of their differences. Picture from Ethan is life floated past Macon is eyes like a film on the ceiling. At twelve he'd been a tall fair-haired boy with an open friendly face and a lovable habit of jumping up and down when he was nervous.
Don't think about it.
He was murdered in a burger bar his second night at summer