By the third day, Mechalle Brown's concern had dissolved into firm resolve, so she flung open the door to her son's bedroom, snapped up the shades, cranked the windows and announced, "We're not doing this anymore."
Jaylen Brown, blinking from the sudden daylight, sighed heavily. He had sequestered himself in darkness and solitude for the better part of the weekend, emerging only when his mother coaxed him out with culinary bribes: jambalaya pasta for dinner, French toast for breakfast. Anything, she would later admit, to stir him from his funk.
But now Mechalle had seen enough.