“Marsha!” William barked.
Her fingers tightened visibly before she released him. Red marks flared on the pale skin of Owen’s wrist. The boy shrank back into his seat as though an invisible door had slammed shut inside him. The sound coming from him changed then, became smaller, strangled, almost silent. He folded into himself and stared down at his lap.
William’s heart began pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
“Pull over if you can’t manage a five-minute correction,” Marsha said coldly.
William’s hands shook on the steering wheel. For one wild second he imagined slamming on the brakes, taking Owen, driving until the gas ran out, not caring where they ended up as long as it was somewhere Marsha and Sue could not reach. But even in his fear there was the old uncertainty, the debilitating habit of requiring proof before action. Was this bad enough? Was he catastrophizing? Was he about to detonate his marriage and traumatize his son further over one terrible drive and a weekend visit his wife insisted was normal?
He hated that his mind still asked such questions.