Wyatt read it. Twice.
His hands started shaking.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to feel like you came out of a catalog,” I said. “I wanted you to have a story with a person in it. Even a bad person. I was wrong. That was my choice to make, and I made it wrong.”
He looked at the page. At the last line.
I hope whoever you are, you raise a kid who’s kinder than I am.
“Why are you telling me now?” he said. “Here?”
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t have to.
He looked up. Past me. At the glass doors of the hospital.
Graham was standing just inside them. Arms at his sides. Not coming out. Waiting.
Wyatt looked at Graham. Then at the printout. Six-one. Brown hair. Civil engineering. Baseball. Woodworking.
Then at Graham again.
The top of the bleachers. The bus stop. The school plays. The hand on the back of his neck.
