It was nearly midnight. After checking for the fifth time, Bitzi was certain that her son was asleep. Quietly, she walked to her bedroom and locked the door. She sat down on the edge of the bed and contemplated the nightstand phone for a while before picking up the handset. Drumming her fingers nervously, she counted. Two rings. Three rings and still no answer. After the fourth and final ring, a cheery recorded voice came across the line: "This is Bo Baxter. Sorry I couldn't make it to the phone, but I'll get back to you if you leave me a message."

Beeeeeep.

Bitzi heaved an aggravated sigh. "Why is it, Bo, that you're never around when I need to talk to you?" she began. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's been a trying day. Listen… I just called to warn you that Buster finally asked about us this morning. It was rough for him at first—for the both of us, actually—but I think he's okay now. I thought you should know, just in case."

She hesitated for a moment. "We have such an intuitive boy, Bo. You do remember what we agreed to tell him, don't you? I need to know that we're on the same page, that you're going to back me up."

Her voice became strained. "Look, I know you don't agree with me, and you think talking about it would be good for me, but I just couldn't—"

Was she imagining things, or were those footsteps out in the hall? "I have to go now, Bo," she said in a rushed whisper. "I'll call you again soon."

She hung up, hastily unlocked the door and peered into the hallway. Nothing was there. Silently shaming herself, she walked the length to Buster's room again and eased the door open. The soft light from the hallway shone like a spotlight through the opening, onto a still sleeping Buster as he lay on the bottom bunk, one foot dangling over the edge of the bed.

Bitzi let out the breath she had been holding, thankful to see her son right where she had left him. It had been years since she had repeatedly sneaked into Buster's room at night, just to check. A simple act that had once been comforting now felt underhanded and intrusive.

She wanted to leave, but she stood transfixed by the sight of her only child. She wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her, for although he had the appearance of a boy in his early teens, Buster also never looked more like the little boy he had once been. It was an odd, sad feeling. My only one. Soon you'll be grown up.

She crept quietly to Buster's side, knelt down and planted a kiss on his forehead, careful not to disturb him. She made her way back to the hallway as quietly as she had come and stole one more glance at her son before slowly shutting the door.

The end.