He dragged himself up the cobblestone path, a stack of envelopes in his hand. All junk as far as he knew. All except one.
He opened the front door and found his father waiting silently at the kitchen table, tie loosened, eyes averted. Why was he home so early? Why today?
His heart thumped, his hand unsteady as he wordlessly set down the packet of mail, that one school-sponsored envelope buried somewhere in the middle.
A good student who had a crap day. And now he was going to pay the price.
Fair? Sure as hell didn’t feel like it.
The Weekday One Hundred 