Caleb pulled back far enough to hold up what he had been carrying. It was the blue leather passport wallet, the one with their initials stamped in gold in the corner that Danielle had ordered from a shop in Notting Hill on their first anniversary, which lived in the top drawer of the desk in the study, which nobody touched unless they were leaving the country.
"I found these in Mom’s bag."
Marcus took it from him. It was heavier than it should have been. He did not open it. He looked past his son at the Highlander, at the suitcases, at the stegosaurus, at his wife standing in the white garage light with her keys in her hand.
"Why is the car packed?"
"Marcus, don’t do this in front of him."
Her voice was low and steady and not quite her own. She had been crying; he could see that now, the swelling under her eyes, the way her braids had been pulled back hard and fast with a scrunchie he didn’t recognize. She took a step toward them and stopped again, as if there were a line drawn on the concrete that she would not cross.
"No." He heard his own voice come out louder than he meant it. Across the street a porch light came on. "Why are our passports packed?"
Danielle closed the distance then. She did not look at him. She crouched in front of Caleb, her knees on the warm driveway, and held out her hand, palm up, the way she used to when he was two and had picked up something sharp.