That evening, after we returned to our hotel in Salt Lake City, Mason asked if he could speak with me alone.

We sat by the window while the others unpacked the little gifts Sabrina had given them: pencils, sketchbooks, and a stuffed fox from a basket of guest presents.

“Was today supposed to make him sad?” Mason asked.

I did not pretend to misunderstand.

“Part of me wanted him to see how much he missed,” I admitted.

“Because he hurt you.”

“Yes.”