Ethan wore our grandfather’s silver crest ring on his left hand, the notched crest polished clean and gleaming in the light.

He laid his hand on the dark wood of the armrest, his thumb resting on the notched metal.

“The guidance counselor asked me something at school today,” Ethan said, gazing out at the gravel drive.

“What did she ask you?”

“She asked whether I wanted to send Mother a card for her birthday next week,” Ethan said, his words steady and unhurried.

“She said I could mail it to that post office box address you gave her.”