“I know,” Evan said quietly.

“You knew before you even flew in from Chicago?” I asked.

“I found out three weeks ago,” he said.

“I can call the high school office first thing tomorrow,” I said, smoothing my lap with both hands.

“It’s just a clerical error.

They can print a corrected page.”

Evan gazed out at Elm Street, watching a blue delivery truck round the corner by the empty lot.

“It wasn’t an error, Mom,” he said.