I stood at the perimeter fence under an ancient oak and watched.

After a while, Hugo and Atticus came out of the main building with clipboards.

Atticus spotted me first, tapped his brother’s arm, and pointed.

Hugo looked over, and this time there was no cold scrutiny — only a cautious, measured curiosity, a boy assessing a man who had deliberately stripped off his armor.

He handed his clipboard to Atticus and crossed the courtyard to me, and looked at the box.

“You brought books for the foundation, sir?” Sir. It still stung, but the ice had thinned; it was a word of distance now, no longer of banishment.