Chapter 23: Dad

Marcello was in the school auditorium at seven fifteen on Saturday morning, two hours and forty-five minutes early.

I found him in the front row, sitting very straight, in the left seat.

"The doors opened at seven," he said. "I wanted to make sure the chair was there."

"It's a school chair, Marcello. It doesn't go anywhere."

"Last time it did."

I sat down in the middle seat and said nothing, because he was right.

By ten the auditorium was full.

Parents filled the rows with phones and folding programs.

At the back, a few reporters stood along the wall, pretending not to be reporters.

Lucia came in on her stick, in a violet coat, and took the right-hand seat with a sniff.

"Terrible chairs," she said. "Very good company."

On the stage, twelve children stood beside their projects.

Miles was at the end.

He had a new model this year, a clear plastic tower with a tiny pump.

Three levels of colored water were meant to rise from the bottom and run down the sides.

He found us in the crowd.

He saw the three of us in a row, and his face folded and unfolded in a second.

I had never seen it do that before.

He gave a small, stiff wave at hip height.

Marcello raised two fingers off his knee.

"That is the best wave I have ever received," he whispered.

The teacher with the clipboard came to Miles's table. She was the same teacher from the day of the empty chair.

She looked at the front row for a long moment.

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