He held the worn green tail of his stuffed dinosaur in one hand and watched the pancake bubble and brown.

“Real wooden desks with little cubbies inside for your pencils,” I told him.

Clay came into the kitchen in his gray shop uniform, his name stitched over the chest pocket in dark blue thread.

He put his car keys on the table beside his folded paper work schedule.

“The shop manager signed off on me working mornings,” Clay said.

He pushed his hand through his hair, but his eyes were steady, and he didn’t stare at the floor the way he used to.

“What time do you clock out?” I asked.