He was six.

He did not need the shed or the cellar or the years in the dark; he needed only the good part, which I gave him slowly and in the shape a child can hold.

“You have a grandpa,” I told him.

“He was very sick and very far away for a long time, and now he’s getting better, and soon you’ll meet him.” Auggie considered this with the gravity six-year-olds bring to important news.

“Is he nice?” he asked.

“He’s the nicest person I’ve ever known,” I said, and it was the truest thing I told anyone that whole year.