Dale had no idea I had Irene Bauer’s handwritten yellow ledger sheet folded in my coat pocket, with his own name as a boy written across the 1984 line in faded blue ink.

At twelve thirty I walked to Washington Elementary to drop off Noah’s spare inhaler chamber at the nurse’s office.

The cafeteria hallway was full of the clatter of plastic trays and seventy second graders all talking at once.

I stood by the double doors behind the milk cooler while the lunch monitor checked off room assignments.

Arthur Vance sat at the far end of the third long table near the dish return window.

He was eight, with narrow shoulders and untied canvas sneakers.