I was still sitting with that thought the next morning when Ethan came to find me in the
kitchen, already dressed, school bag over one shoulder, with the particular energy of a
child who has something planned and is waiting for the adults to catch up.
“Noah’s coming this afternoon,” he said. Not a question. A statement of confirmed fact.
“Is he?” I said.
“I told him he could. We’re building something.” He looked at me with the expression of
someone who has already worked out that parental approval is essentially a formality at
this point but is going through the motions out of courtesy. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay,” I said.
He picked up a piece of toast and left for school, satisfied.
Noah arrived at three fifteen with his school bag and a paper bag from a specialist
en
