“They’ve never seen who you are or heard you talk.”

“That’s an incomplete explanation,” Sam said, adjusting his glasses again.

“A person can be angry even when the fact is good.”

The arena horn sounded twice over the rink, signaling the start of his hockey team’s practice.

“We’re going there to introduce ourselves, not to fight,” I told him, holding his small shoulder.

Sam nodded once, pushed off the bench, and glided onto the fresh ice without another word.

At eight forty-five that evening, four pairs of black leather dress shoes stood in a neat row across the kitchen island.