A couple hours pass. Most of the time I spend trying not to stare at my desk drawer, not to think about Dad’s letter. This thing with Wally is distracting enough. Wally’s parents must have bailed him out by now; I need to check on him.
I dial his cell and it rings.
He answers in a real low voice, “Hey.”
I ask, “You doin’ okay?”
“Kind of,” he says so softly that I can barely hear him. I’m sure he doesn’t want his parents to know that he’s on the phone.
