"Kenny, thank goodness you're here."

She rushed toward him.

"Your wife is completely overreacting."

Kenny didn't look at her.

He walked into the kitchen.

Placed the folder on the counter.

And opened it.

Photographs.

Maps.

Printed pages.

Tracking records.

My confusion returned.

"What is that?"

Kenny looked at me.

Then at his mother.

"After what happened last year, I put a GPS tracker on Frankie's collar."

I stared at him.

"You never told me."

"I didn't want to worry you."

He looked down at the documents.

"I hoped I'd never need it."

Then he looked at Diane.

"But I did."

The First Photograph

Kenny picked up a photograph.

It showed Diane near our house.

Frankie was beside her.

His leash was attached.

My stomach tightened.

"You clipped his leash on."

Diane opened her mouth.

Kenny raised the photograph.

"You walked him away from the house."

Another photograph.

A different location.

Then another.

A map.

A street.

A school.

A busy road.

Kenny's voice remained calm.

That calmness was more frightening than anger.

"The tracker showed where he went."

He pointed to the map.

"You took him two blocks away."

Diane shook her head.

"I was just walking him."

"You didn't tell us."

"He needed exercise."

"He is sixteen years old."

"He can walk."

Kenny continued.

"You left him here."

He pointed to the map.

"Near the elementary school."

Diane's expression changed.

"And then you walked away."

The Road

Kenny's voice became quieter.

"When the tracker alerted me, I left work."

He looked at me.

"I drove around looking for him."

My eyes filled with tears.

"Where did you find him?"

Kenny looked toward the window.

"Standing beside the road."

I covered my mouth.

"He was confused."

Kenny swallowed.

"He couldn't hear the cars."

The kitchen became completely silent.

I imagined Frankie standing there.

Sixteen years old.

Nearly deaf.

Confused.

Waiting for someone he trusted to come back.