tomorrow

Tomorrow, she will turn in her son. He knows nothing of it. The sheriff’s deputies will arrive at 8 a.m., sharp, they promised, handcuff him and take him to the county jail. She will try to explain, but he won’t listen, of course. He will feel betrayed, as she might, too, she knows. But it has come to this. She has no choice. If not this, he will end up dead, and, she fears, sooner than later. This is no panacea, either. She knows that, too. But it might forestall the inevitable, buy her some time to try to figure out how to – who can – help him. She pours herself some wine. It is late. After midnight. The wind wails at this hour, in this part of the country, especially in the dead of January. The temperature is expected to drop to minus-15, much lower with the wind chill. She opens the door to the wood-burning stove and throws in two logs. She will wait for another 15 minutes, then enter his room to make sure he’s covered and to kiss him on the cheek. Then, she will go to her bedroom and weep and, maybe, sleep.