Barton parked the car in a field of damp grass and narrowed his eyes in defense of the rising sun.
“Would you look at that,” he said. “My God. It’s uncanny.”
His son silently gazed out the side window, unmoved, uninterested, his nose only inches from the glass.
“C’mon,” Barton urged. “Just look at it. You have to see the resemblance.”
The boy took a long and bored breath, the way teenagers do. Barton dragged his hand over his cheek, and once again traced the shape of the house with his eyes. Incredible, he thought to himself.
Again, Barton tried his son: “It looks just like grandma’s, don’t you think?”
The boy chose not to respond and the silence hung like a bad odor, thick and sour. Barton sighed.
“Are you ever going to talk? Jesus, Lance. You're going to have to. Talk, I mean. Sooner or later.”
Lance rolled his eyes, and then blew a deep, disgusted breath from his lips. Barton frowned silently to himself.
“Look,” he finally pleaded. “I wish this was your grandmother’s house, okay? Don't you know that? For God's sake…” He turned his upper body in the seat and leaned toward Lance until the safety belt bit into his collarbone. “I wish the circumstances were different. You think this is fun for me? Do you? You think this is what I wanted? Driving all the way out here…dropping my son off at this...this... this…PLACE.”