I had brought one of Wyatt’s fishing rods, the good one, the one he had saved for months to buy.

I held it out to Christopher.

“I’d like you to have this,” I said.

“Wyatt would have hated to see a good rod sit in a dark closet forever.

He’d want it out on the water.” Christopher took it with both hands, carefully, the way you accept something sacred, and I saw that he understood exactly what it was.

Zachary came and stood beside me, looking out at the calm water.

“For six years,” he said quietly, “I believed the empty place on that boat belonged to me.