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The Drought of Sam Dakota
A missed court appearance early in the morning and an emergency custody hearing later in the day sent Sam’s planned day into the crapper. Practically before the judge’s gavel came down, he sprinted from the courthouse. Kansas City’s bumper-to-bumper rush hour hadn’t prevented him getting home before Danny got off the school bus. Not once since Kate died, had he failed to get home. He pulled into the driveway, slammed the truck into park, and leapt out. He hollered Danny’s name as he entered, pausing long enough to glance at the wood floor where his son always dropped his Spiderman backpack. Sam had tripped over it too many times to count.
The wide planks gleamed, unmarred by black and red.
He looked at his watch. 4:45. The bus always arrived by 3:50. “Danny!” The dining room and kitchen were empty. No apple or glass of milk, no sign of snacking. On the back porch, he searched the corners of the yard. Humidity caused wisps of hair to curl around his face, and he swiped them back. It hadn’t been easy scheduling his court cases early in the day, but he’d made it a priority after Kate died. Now what?
There was no boy smell, no stinky shoes, no fresh from outdoors odors. No mud or dirt in evidence.