My Thirteen-Year-Old Son Sold His Guitar to Help a Classmate. The Police Visit the Next Morning Revealed What Really Happened.

Noah shrugged. “Still Here.”

I looked at the guitar, the small scuffs on its case and the careful way Noah supported the neck.

We had saved for that instrument because we wanted him to have something beautiful that made him feel capable.

Somehow the instrument had become part of a larger story about what he believed he owed the world.

“It’s a good name,” I said.

Noah lowered the guitar.