[Fiction] A grieving family’s privileged, plastic life:
“She hears his car grinding up the hill. At the edge of the driveway, the engine shudders, continuing on for a few seconds before falling silent. Walter buzzes the front gate; Esmeralda, the housekeeper, lets him in. The gate closes with a thick metallic click.
“‘Where are you?’ he calls out.
“‘I’m hiding,’ Cheryl yells from the backyard.
“He enters the through the pool gate.
“‘Shouldn’t that be locked?’ she asks.
“‘I remembered the code,’ he says.
“‘The pool boy’s code, 1234?’
“He nods. ‘Some things never change.’
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