He hugged his knees tighter under his chin.

Matty looked down at his sneakers on the porch steps.

By seven on Friday morning, the middle school courtyard smelled of damp grass and floor wax.

Matty climbed out of the passenger side of my utility truck with his tri-fold cardboard poster tucked under one arm.

With his free hand he pulled off his round plastic wire-rimmed glasses and cleaned the lenses on the hem of his shirt before sliding them back on.

“Are you sure you can be done at the beach before eleven thirty?” he asked, looking toward the wide brick arch over the main entrance.