Wayne’s never been much good at words. Feelings come out all crooked when he tries. He doesn't know how to apologize.

But he knows he screwed up bad. Real bad. The kind you don’t just walk away from with a grunt and a nod.

So he stands there, stiff as a board outside the door, gripping a bunch of half-wilted flowers he yanked outta the park five minutes ago. The stems are bent, roots still clinging to clumps of earth. There’s dirt under his fingernails, a smear of it on his cheek, scuffed boots tracking grass across the porch. His hands won’t stop trembling. Not much, but enough.

He’s nervous. The kind of nervous that knots in your gut and makes your throat feel too small. But he’s here. And maybe that’s a start.