The stadium quieted.

He looked up, directly into our section of the bleachers.

“Tonight, my real father is sitting in these stands.”

My stomach dropped straight through the concrete.

Beside me, Warren sat up straighter, buttoned his jacket, and let a small, proud smile touch his mouth, already half-rising to be seen.

The noise of the stadium went to static in my ears.

For fourteen years I had been quietly afraid of a hundred things — rent, and fevers, and whether I was doing any of it right, and the far-off day he might ask why he’d been raised by a man who shared none of his blood.